


the sky is blue for the same reason that the sunset is red

by mozartspiano



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Summer, hard of hearing character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25023811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mozartspiano/pseuds/mozartspiano
Summary: The house creaks as if in a shrug. Old family cabins are haunted by the kind of stories walls can't shake. It takes awhile for Fred to fall asleep.
Relationships: Frederik Andersen/William Nylander
Comments: 38
Kudos: 103
Collections: Pucking Rare - A Hockey Rarepair Challenge





	the sky is blue for the same reason that the sunset is red

**Author's Note:**

> additional tags & warnings at the end (includes spoilers!)
> 
> merci to c for the title (by way of carl sagan) & s for reading it as i wrote, sending me homemade memes for Inspiration, and being a good friend

i.

Fred's hands get sticky as he scrapes garlic off his cutting board and into his palm before dropping it into the cast iron pan over the stove top. He rinses his hands in the bucket of water he has next to the counter and dries them on the tea towels his mum gave him before he left his parent's house. They have roses embroidered along the top. 

It's still light outside. Fred misses that when he's in Toronto, the way the sun stretches on forever in this part of the world. He can see the lake from his window over the sink in the kitchen, dirty from cobwebs and half a century of dust. The lake is the kind of calm Fred recognizes from the stories his mom used to read to him and he can't help but feel it's saying something.

The cottage has high ceilings. At least that's something.

He unwraps the cod fillet that Mrs. Hammon down the lane sent him yesterday when he arrived. It smells like the lake, clean and fresh, and he's grateful that she took the liberty of gutting it for him. Fred has only passing memories of fishing on this lake. He remembers his grandfather's hands pink with fish blood and the steel eyes of the fish staring back at him. But he really doesn't know how to make fillets of it.

The cod hits the cast iron with a sizzle.

Everything is old here. The stove is wood fire, and black iron like something out of a Dickens novel. The whole cottage is only one main room, a tiny bathroom off the front door with space for a toilet only. It has electricity but only just, barely enough to keep the water running. Fred's cooler, where his food will stay sandwiched between ice bags he gets from the grocery store in town, is just in one corner. 

Fred takes the pencil from behind his ear and flips the notebook on the kitchen table over to the other side, labelled  _ Groceries _ , and writes down: Rosemary. 

There are only five cottages on the lake. The Hammons are further down, round the bend. He can see their dock from behind a row of juniper trees that run along the edge of their property. Two cottages are across the lake, far enough that Fred can only just see smoke rising from their properties in the twilight. 

The last property is to the west of Fred, close enough that he could see into the kitchen from the fire pit in his yard. It was newer than the cottage Fred's grandfather built, with birchwood beams and a row of white flowers in the bed below the windows. There are wild apple trees in the front garden and a big willow tree with a swing rising from the earth between Fred's property and the cottage. Mrs. Hammon told him that they had new renters in the cottage every year. She says the house almost always attracts a family.

Fred hopes the kids won't be too loud.

He eats his trout with a potato, roasted golden in the oven with aluminum foil. It's cool on the back porch. His grandfather never built much of a setup; the chairs Fred remembers scattered along the yard have long since been transported to other houses in the family. Instead, he carries a kitchen chair out to sit on, wooden and hard on his back. 

It's easy, then, to miss the city like a paper cut. 

Grasshoppers call to each other. Fred fiddles around with his phone in one hand, looking out at the lake.

Fred felt it on the drive up - this heaviness he couldn't quite shake. He feels the heaviness now, this rattling thing that soaks into his lungs like a towel picking up after a spill. He hasn't been here since before the draft; he got a sunburn helping his dad cut firewood in the drive. There was a feeling like every time before, when he was young, pulling up to the cottage and seeing the neat rows of wood painted red gone rust colour in the summer sunlight; like the drive was too long and over too soon all at once.

His grandfather didn't die in the cottage, of course, but it feels like if he was going to haunt anywhere, it would be here. 

The old thatch roof was the last thing his grandfather fixed before he died. Rows of clay shingles fray out from the chimney like the rows of seats in an arena. They'll need fixing. Fred reminds himself to write it down on his list. 

Fix it, Fred tells himself, as the sun turns the lake mustard. Fix the shingles and the loose floorboards. Rebuild the bannisters along the stairs that lead up to the loft. Replace the window in the front with the crack down the middle. Paint the cottage. 

Fred drops the trout skin and the bits of the potato that caught along the sides into the fire pit and covers them with last night's ash. The light goes slow here and then, as if it's tucking in for the night, all at once.

He climbs the stairs to the loft. His mother gave him a fresh pair of sheets, white flannel for the cool nights, and he fits them around the old mattress before sliding into them. Fred sleeps naked in his condo in the city but it feels weird to do that in this place where his family used to lay bedrolls down on the floor of the main room, his head tucked up against the kitchen counters. In the winter, his grandmother would light the stove through the night and Fred would wake up flushed hot, dreaming of cool lake water. 

The house creaks as if in a shrug. Old family cabins are haunted by the kind of stories walls can't shake. It takes awhile for Fred to fall asleep.

ii.

He meets William on his third day.

There was a new sound on the road behind the cottage in the morning, wheels against gravel road, and Fred, who already had his head under a pillow to combat the noise of a neighbourhood of birds saying good morning to each other, didn't think anything of it. When he woke later, coffee in an Innsbruck Olympics mug that had seen better days, there was a dusty Volkswagen with furniture tied to the top tucked in between two oak trees. 

By the afternoon he hasn't heard a noise out of the family but he has cracked open the wall behind his grandfather's old kitchen cupboard and found a decades worth of mice droppings, so that's good. And when Fred's using the last dregs of his phone battery to google how to repel mice, there's a tap on the screen of the back door. 

Fred's mother has an expression. He can't remember it clearly and would butcher it to try, but it's something about how when you're not looking for anything, anything stops by your door. He rubs a hand over his face and hopes that Mrs. Hammon is bringing over more of the sangria she gave him with the trout on his first night.

Instead, it's a pretty blonde.

"Hi," he says, through the screen when Fred comes close enough. "I'm Will. I'm staying at the house next door."

"Hi," Fred says, and then clears his throat and tries again. He hasn't spoken to anyone but the grocery clerk in a day. "Fred."

Will steps back to let Freddie push the door open. He has long legs and eyes like the lake when the sun comes up in the morning. Fred's seen and danced with and fucked models before. He knows one when he sees one. 

"I accidentally made too much food," Will says and he smiles like something glossy from a magazine, his nose pale with freckles and no pores like people aren't in real life. "And I thought I would see if you wanted to share? I offered it to the really nice couple down the lane, but the man is allergic to strawberries so."

Fred probably smells like mouse shit. His shirt is one of the six his dad leant him. It's from a Pet Shop Boys concert in the mid to late eighties, all stretched out and weathered. Fred aches for the fit of a clean henley, a gin and tonic in one hand, and a bar to lean an elbow against while he meets this pretty stranger. 

"I'm not allergic to strawberries," he says.

"Good," Will says, grinning. His teeth are like tombstones in a row with gaps between them. "Do you have any tupperware? I just moved in this morning and I've been putting paintings up and I can't find the tupperware in any of the cupboards. Maybe they don't put that kind of thing in holiday homes? I'm not sure."

Fred thinks about his kitchen cupboards and the limited glassware that survived the various family purges. "I don't have any tupperware," he says. "But I'm pretty hungry now. I could just bring over a bowl?" and then, because better safe than sorry, "If your partner doesn't mind."

"You're welcome to," Will says, happy all over his face. "And it's just me. I've been alone for a few hours and I'm already losing it."

Fred grabs a jean jacket to put over his horrible shirt and a pair of sandals. The sun is warm but it's weak through clouds today. The air off the water is cool, too early in the season to be ready for swimming, and Fred follows Will's footsteps past his grandfather's willow and onto the porch of the cottage next door.

Along the porch is a swing seat. Fred's seen it a few dozen times in his life but never with so many pillows. They're colourful and look like something found at an estate sale for a rich French woman. There's a puddle of a blanket, velvet and coral, strewn next to a tablet. In front of the seat is a wooden coffee table set up for one; a large salad bowl and a smaller porcelain one, handmade like something in a magazine or Johnny's house in High Park. Next to it is a cup of tea in a small cup that matches a little teapot. 

"Please, please join me," Will says, gesturing to one of the other chairs on the porch. They have the same small, colourful pillows adorning them. "I was just figuring out where to put all my stuff in the cottage. I think I might have overpacked."

He has a smile that makes Fred want to be part of his inside jokes. He drags one of the chairs from the corner, wicker, to be closer. 

"Here, here," Will says, with heavy wooden salad tongs held out. Fred moves his bowl to catch it. "Take as much as you like."

"Thank you."

The salad, layers of kale and strawberry and sliced almonds with a balsamic vinaigrette, confirms what Fred figured. Will has golden limbs, arms that curl around his golden knees when he tucks them up on the swing. His clothing hangs off him, tailored, and his hands look softer than Fred's have ever been. 

"Are you renting for the summer as well?"

"Family cottage," Fred says. "We want to sell it so. I'm trying to fix it up."

"That's sweet," Will says, eyes honey like the kind Freddie's grandmother drips onto scones. "I'm pretty useless with my hands. My dad built a fence around our house one summer and he tried to teach us how to use a drill. It didn't go well."

Fred laughs. He says, "I'll only do as much as I can. I'll have to contract the rest of the work. And then I'll go home, probably."

Will hums. "Where's home?"

It's not an easy question. "My parents live in Herning. I spend most of my time in Toronto."

It's a sight: Will's nose flushed pink and his eyes looking at Fred. He has eyelashes like a particularly flirtatious giraffe. "I know what you mean. My family is mostly in Stockholm, but I live in New York. And Paris. I guess I move around a lot."

"Yeah."

"But I'll be here until August," Will says, eyes on the horizon. "Do you have a fire pit? I was really disappointed when I saw this place didn't come with one. What's the point of being by the water if you can't have a fire, right?"

He says water weird, a twang that doesn't sound like Stockholm or New York or Paris. "I have a fire pit."

"Nice. I'm glad I came over to bother you, then." Will says and his eyes skim over Fred's shoulders before he grins. 

Fred smiles. "Me too."

iii.

Fred had a coach in junior who used to say that everything looked worse before it got better. In Fred's experience that isn't always true, because sometimes things looked really good before they got better, like his dad's shepherd pie before it hit the oven, and sometimes things looked really bad and they stayed pretty bad.

Fred can't quite imagine how the cottage is going to get better, is the thing.

"It should still work."

"It doesn't, dad," Fred says. He's got his phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear, hunkered over the drill his dad packed for him that must have been invented in the fucking Palaeolithic period. "Nothing is happening."

"You charged the battery."

"Yes, dad."

"And you flicked the ON switch."

"Dad."

Fred's never renovated an old cottage from scratch before. Obviously. He watched a few Holmes on Holmes videos in Auston's condo before he left for Europe, but mostly he got distracted trying to shoot popcorn into Auston's gaping mouth while he slept. He skimmed through a few articles on the plane before he found a feature on golf courses and read that instead. It's just - his condo came furnished. Fred's never really needed to know how saws work before.

Mice chewed through a lot of the flooring near the front and back doors. The old wood's gone worn and warped in some places, from decades of rain storms and disuse and damp breath in the night. The longer Fred looks the more work seems to be created, every nook and cranny a new spot for his own personal hell. 

"It'll take some love," his dad says over the line. He sounds more like Fred's grandfather every year, his accent more pronounced on certain words. "Sure won't be easy. But it means a lot to your grandmother, that you're doing this, Frederik. She's overjoyed."

And how the fuck is Fred supposed to argue with that, mice shit and moldy bathrooms aside.

He ends up spending the afternoon ripping out the old floors in the bathroom. Underneath it's grey, this horrible porridge stone that is cold to touch even now, in summer. It feels like the kind of stone devoid of story. Fred takes the boards out to the front of the house, to eventually dispose of at a recycling centre, before going in for more. 

It's past three when he leaves the cottage for a break. He's hot, sweat wet and thick like mud down his muscles. The cottage has enough water to run a toilet and pump water through the sink at a glacial pace. It definitely doesn't have the space or water pressure for a shower. So Freddie brings a towel to the end of the dock, biodegradable soap and shampoo. 

It's still fucking cold this early in the season. Fred's toes reach nearly to the bottom, where icy water swirls around his feet and makes him crunch into a ball. He keeps himself as horizontal as possible while he scrubs himself down, close to the surface where the weak rays of the sun still reach his skin. His hands ache in a way they never have after hockey, the kind of hurt that comes only from destroying and building. Fred holds them out, flat on the water like the water striders that skirt across the surface. White against the deep blue of the water, he runs them back and forth to feel cool against his knuckles. 

The sun starts to warm him through gently, enough that he can take a lap to a buoy a few hundred metres out and when he gets back to the dock, Will is sitting at the end of it. 

"Hi there stranger," he says, smile small. He's sitting on Fred's towel, legs brown and dusted gold with hair that dip into the water so all Fred can see are the long, straight bones of his ankle. "I saw you from the porch. Couldn't believe anyone would be swimming this early in the season."

"Oh," Freddie says, after a second. It always takes a minute for his thoughts to meet up with the part of his brain that translates thoughts from language to language. "My grandfather only ran enough electricity to the house to flush a toilet. I brought up water for drinking."

"Holy shit, bro. So you're roughing it, huh?"

"Afraid so."

"Well if you need to charge your phone," Will says, "Or use WiFi. Or have a real shower. Or just like, enjoy refrigerated food, you let me know."

Fred thinks about the way bottles of beer drip onto his shorts, melted ice from his cooler. "I'll take you up on that."

"You should."

The sun won't set for a good while this far north, but Fred would like to see Will in a sunset. Fred knows that people aren't everything they look but Will looks happy in the kind of way Fred can't remember being for a really long time. He wants to feel Will breathe against him, wants to know what it's like to have hot skin under his hands. 

"Move over?" he says and Will does. 

Fred's arms ache, in the same vague way his limbs have ached every day since he turned fourteen, when he pushes himself out of the water. Will passes him the towel and Fred tosses it over his shoulders, up into his hair. There's a pool in Fred's building back home but for some reason the water here feels different trickling down the back of his neck. 

"It's so quiet here."

"It's nice."

"I thought this is what I needed you know?" Will says and he's looking out at the water. He makes shapes on the surface with his toes and little ripples fade away from them. "To be in the middle of nowhere and hear myself think. But I miss the city."

Fred nods. 

Will reaches behind him to dig into a canvas bag that Fred couldn't see when he was in the water. It looks old like cool, not old like bad, and he pulls a clunky, vintage camera out of it. It has a long black strap like the ones that loop around sunburnt suburban dad necks on vacation in Italy. 

"I dated this guy for a few months two years ago," Will says, camera up against his face now like something sweet from a movie. He takes the picture. "He taught me how to use old cameras. And I'm not very good at it, because I can't sit still for very long. But it's kind of fun."

Fred once watched Mitch buy a Polaroid camera and break a Polaroid camera all in the same day. He nods again. 

"I like the part afterwards. I like waiting for things to be developed. Like, nothing's usually fast in real life. So it's kind of nice to wait for the photos to come out."

"I get that."

"My first roll I ruined because my thumb was over the lens. Gaspard was annoyed."

"Gaspard?" Fred can't say it the way Will does, all French.

"The boy," Will says, "He was very beautiful and used to peel grapes before he ate them. He had this fantastic birthmark on his stomach that looked like an elephant. And he was a violinist."

"Sounds like a catch."

"He was also into some weird sex stuff and had a short temper," Will says, shrugging. "So I dumped him. Smile."

"No."

"Come on," Will says, peeking out from behind the camera. His mouth is small but his smile is large. "I'm trying to take a lot of pictures when I'm young and beautiful so one day my grandchildren will be impressed by my life. Don't you want to be looked at by my grandchildren one day?"

"No."

Now Will's fingers come out to tickle Fred's arm, short nails soft against the freckles and red hair. It's the first time they've touched and he's warm. He says, "Come on!" again, grinning, trying to let Freddie in on his joke. "You have a cute smile, you should smile."

Fred feels himself flush and - 

"Got it," Will says, triumphant. He has older brother energy. His grin is like a boy in a strawberry patch, eating them straight from the basket. "I bet it will be the best picture of the bunch."

They have dinner that night, together, the steaks Fred picked up at the local that he sears on William's barbecue. Will is wearing this ridiculous jacket; it's white and lacy and long, like something Fred's little sister would put on while lying in the sun if there was a breeze out. Fred tries to tease him about it.

"I like it," Will says, tugging the sleeves over his hands and then sticking his hands under his armpits. "How long on the steaks?"

That's another thing Fred likes about him. He has this blinding confidence. Fred likes to poke fun at people, the longer he knows them, and he's starting to think that will be difficult with Will, who brushes everything off with a cute smile. Or maybe it'll be easy. Fred doesn't meet a lot of new people, all things considered. Not like this.

"I'm getting eaten alive," Will says, as he holds a plate out for the two sirloins. His face is screwed up like he can pout at the mosquitos to drive them away. "Want to eat inside? It'll give me a reason to set the table."

Fred nods.

The cottage is airy and beautiful, like William. The kitchen is all exposed cupboards and white counters, shiny gas stove, matching white fridge, and rows of carefully marked spices. In the centre of the room is a long barn table, with an assortment of odd chairs perched around it. One is pulled out at a grey Macbook and a pair of headphones in a tangle next to a small Moleskine. A door leads off from the kitchen, a wall cutting into the room and forcing a hallway-

"Excuse me," Will says, shuffling in around Fred to get to the countertop. "Make yourself comfortable."

Fred steps further inside. Past the doorway and through the hall, there's a living room. The walls are adorned with green wallpaper, a pattern of leaves and gold flowers. There is a small sofa with a quilt on top, facing a stone fireplace. It's pretty and cozy but the one thing Fred can't get over - on every shelf, every exposed bit of wall, there's  _ stuff _ . Rows of picture frames line the walls, art and photographs and rusty mirrors, geometric patterns over every square inch. Along the mantle there are vases and pots of flowers, antique candlesticks, model size boats, shiny silver music boxes, and a row of fairy lights. There are end tables on either side of the couch, laden down with more things, this time beautiful books and paper mache eggs in a glass bowl.

Fred's never seen anywhere like it. 

"Nice place," he tells Will, when he wanders back into the kitchen. He peeked his nose into a bedroom off the living room, light but un-lived in, and a bathroom with a glass shower and marble countertops. "The owners keep a lot of things up on the walls. A lot of flowers on the mantle."

"Could I give you these?" Will asks and Fred dutifully holds a stack of plates for him. He stands next to the dining table and watches as Will clears away his clutter and sets the table. "Those weren't there when I got here. I just moved out of my apartment in Paris, so I took everything down and brought it here."

He takes the plates from Fred's hands and lines them up with the cutlery. The table looks pretty good to Fred. Will stands back to look, and then potters off to the living room. He comes back a minute later with a vase full of lily of the valley. He places it on the centre of the table, between the platter of steak and two bowls, a fruit salad and Brussel sprouts in balsamic vinegar.

"I like everything to be beautiful," William says, as Fred takes his seat. "Everywhere I go, I make sure it's pretty. I hate living in ugly places."

There's a rolled up fabric napkin for him with peaches on it, and he drapes it over his knee. He feels like he's back at his grandmother's for Christmas dinner, but it makes William smile.

"I'll have to have you decorate my place."

"I would literally love to," Will says. He cuts his steak into little pieces before he pops them into his mouth. "How's it coming along, anyways?"

"Not well," Fred says. 

Will grins down at his plate. Fred watches him spear a slice of mango, strawberry, and pineapple onto one forkful. He says, "Is it weird, being back? You used to come up here when you were younger, right?"

"Yeah. It's - " Freddie looks around the kitchen, where every inch of Will's personality is in full force, 

"- Odd. We came up here every summer until I turned 18. It's a far drive from Denmark, so we would stay awhile to make it last. My sister and I used to help Mrs, um, Hammon down the way. We would go over to paint her fence."

"That's very sweet," Will says. It's almost unnerving, his stare, even with the smile.

"I haven't been since I moved."

Will points his fork at Fred, "Toronto, right?"

"You been?"

"A few times," William says. He speaks through a mouthful of steak. "I like that museum you have. The one that has glass and metal on the outside that looks like a wave."

It takes Fred a second. He thinks about walks with Tys and Ralph through the Grange. "The AGO?"

"That's the one! I like it." Will rests his chin in one hand while he scoops up more fruit with the other. "It's beautiful. I probably have a picture of it around here somewhere. I was in Toronto last year in the spring. My ex was in town for work, so I got to explore the city on my own."

Fred nods. Will doesn't so much tell stories as drop important information like it's nothing. Fred wishes he had a notebook to write down every new thing he learns. He watches Will's fork choose more vegetables. His steak, massacred into small pieces, has hardly been touched. Behind Will's head, tucked away in the far side where the mudroom is, is a staircase of hardwood leading up and away. No doubt to an attic, with a bedroom far more lived in than the one off the living room. 

Fred eyes it, contemplatively, and chews on a strawberry. 

iv.

There used to be more families up here, when Fred was a kid. One summer he came up for a week and almost died of boredom before a family pulled into the old farmhouse down the way that doesn't exist anymore. There was a girl in the family and she had red hair like Fred's and they swam to the island and back one afternoon before he kissed her, the two of them bobbing like apples. 

Will and him haven't kissed yet. Fred wonders if he should ask to go swimming together.

They spend almost every afternoon together, usually sharing leftovers from Fred's dinner and a salad or smoothie that Will throws together. The wicker chair Fred took the first night becomes a permanent addition on Will's porch. Will is funny and chatty and sweet. He tells Fred stories about his big family and their home in Stockholm and the family dog with it's floppy ears. 

"Sounds like you should make a move," Mitch says, later that week, when Fred is calling him on his way back from the hardware store in town. The long planks of flooring and 2-by-fours he bought stick out of his trunk and up to his dashboard, bumping into his shoulder. Fred regrets not going full Ontario and buying a pickup, instead of his hybrid sports car. 

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?" Mitch says. It sounds like he is eating a pizza pocket. Fred knows what Mitch sounds like eating a pizza pocket because he is usually eating a pizza pocket. "He's the only sexy person in a twenty mile radius right? What have you got to lose?"

"Mitchell."

"You're hot, Fred. Smoking hot. I would totally bone you, bud."

Fred stops at a stop sign. He hasn't seen another person on the road since he left the store. "Thanks, Mitchy. I just don't want to - it's like. Will's sweet. You know?"

"Oooooooh," Mitch says. Fred can hear his grin. His cheesy, pizza sauce chin grin. "You  _ like  _ him. You want to  _ emotionally  _ bone him. You want to  _ make love _ to this guy."

"Mitch."

"You're a big softie, Fred, I've always said that."

Fred pulls into the cottage driveway. He can see Will's just further down. His front yard is full of wild apple trees and they're heavy with blossoms and fruit. Will told Fred that he wanted to make a pie but he was pretty lousy at baking. Fred thought about asking his mother for her pie crust recipe before imaging the many layers of questioning he would be subjected to, and decided he'd rather not.

"I'm not," Fred says, looking away from the spots where the apples have fallen onto the lawn, gone brown with rot. "I'm just bored. And he's good-looking. I don't plan on spending the whole summer here anyway."

"You gotta come to my end of summer party," Mitch says, already onto the next thing. "Before training camp starts and we get all distracted with hockey. I've got three words and they are Bar Bee Cue, my man, it's going to be lit."

Fred lets Mitch tell him about the party, which, for some reason, is going to feature an old beer league friend of his brother's who does balloon animals - "Bro, he makes one hell of a penguin." - and how he's trying to find a shirsey that his dog will tolerate for longer than 10 minutes, so him and Zeus can match the whole night. Mitch's chatter accompanies Fred inside the cottage, unloading the packages of flooring for the main room, the planks of wood to rebuild the bannister for the stairs to the loft, and a bag full of basically every kind of screw because the clerk at the store only spoke Swedish and Freddie couldn't remember the translation for everything he needed.

"We've been putting in upgrades too," Mitch says, over a slurp of something probably bubbly. "Dude's coming next week to install the fountain for the pool."

"Like one of those fountains with cherubs on it?" 

"No, bro, like a sick, rock waterfall."

Fred laughs, trying to remember the layout of Mitch's backyard. He pokes his head through the mossy curtains that hang over the window above the sink. It's an immediate reward: William, in the middle of his lawn, in downward dog. As Fred watches, he steps into it, rocking back and forth for a second, before he pushes upward into the pose that Fred can't remember the name of, but always reminds him of a mermaid. Fred can't stop staring at his ass. 

"Fred?"

"Um," he tells Mitch, "I have to. I got to go."

"Ooooooooh," Mitch says, annoying, grinning, probably all slouched over his stupid gaming chair in his half-empty Etobicoke mansion. "Yeah you do. Got Wonder Boy to chat up, eh? Get it dude."

"Hanging up now."

Will is sitting with his legs in a complex pretzel when Fred wanders up to him. He has black yoga pants tugged up to his belly button. A shirt, cut off at the midriff, grazes his skin. The front of his hair is tugged into a topknot. Fred's mouth is very dry. 

"Hey," Will says, grin big. "Were you out?"

"Hardware store."

"Basically your second home." He tugs out one of his legs and lays it down, toward Fred. He bends over his leg, arms up like a dancer. His shirt rides up enough to see browned skin, a row of ribs, and where his stomach dips inward instead of out like Fred's. His head is down on his calf. "Mrs Hammon came looking for you and when she couldn't find you, she gave me a power drill and a hand saw."

"Oh," Fred says. He clears his throat. He thinks about Mrs. Hammon and hand saws and not about crop tops. "They're um. Lending me. Some stuff. For the house."

"I figured," Will says, poking his head up. His grin is wide. "It's on the porch. You good?"

"Mhm."

He creeps out of the pose, stretching backward until his arms are behind him, bent wrists, leaning back onto them. His shirt rides up until Fred can see his sternum. Fred does not look at his sternum. Fred looks at the water bottle Will has next to his phone, headphones, and towel.

"So."

"So."

"Can I help you?" Will says, giggling, and it's not unkind. He's a silly character, happy to be happy like not many people Fred's met. There's a shine of sweat over his forehead, collarbone, and above his top lip. Fred does not look at that either. "You seem a little bit distracted."

"Was thinking about having a fire tonight."

Will's eyes go sparkled in excitement. "Really?"

"If you think you can handle the mosquitos, yeah."

"I'll wear bug spray," Will says, earnest. "My mom made me buy a litre of it before I moved in. My dad's side of the family is like, not allergic? To mosquitos? Apparently that's a thing. But I got my mother's genes and she swells right up. So I got the good stuff. Like - it's probably illegal in California."

Fred grins. "Cool."

"Cool."

They look at each other a minute longer. Will tilts his head to the side and wrinkles his nose in a smile. 

"Can I finish my workout now?" he asks and Fred startles. It's worth it for the way Will laughs, loud and hiccupy and strange, like no one has ever told him to be quiet before. 

Later, when it's dark and they're around the fire pit, Fred asks, "So you're a model right?" 

Will was worried about his wicker chairs catching aflame and the chairs that Fred found, in the small shed in the front yard, had been chewed through by mice. He brought a blanket instead, old and far past soft, which is where they sit. Will wears shorts and a heavy hoodie; across the chest, inexplicably, reads the words  _ Salem, Massachusetts _ , with a little drawing of a witch on a broomstick underneath. His hands are small where they appear out of the rolled up sleeves of his sweater.

Will rolls his eyes. "Fuck off," he says but then, "I've done, like, a few campaigns. I've walked three or four runways. It's like - go away."

Fred hides his smile against the mouth of his beer bottle. Will's hair is fluffed like a duck. "Sure."

"I'm not a big deal," Will says, staring into the fire. He's wearing canvas tennis shoes and he presses the soles of them up against the iron of the fire pit. "Really. And it's like. Let's talk about something else."

"Shy?"

"It's just not very interesting," Will says. He pulls his feet in to toss an arm around them. "I kind of fell into it."

Fred looks at the fire. Looks at Will. 

"Okay so," Will says and Fred smiles, watches the fire ripple across wood. "I was in a mall in Södertälje with my sisters and - ugh - god, like. Some lady came up to me with a card and I went to this audition, thing, and it was. I don't know. It was a meeting and then I had another meeting and then some photographer was telling me to look pensive. Shut up."

"Do you like it?"

Will looks at him, face a little scrunched up, but when he sees Fred isn't making fun, it softens. "Yeah. Yeah, I like it. I'm good at it. I like travelling and meeting new people. I like long days. I like - the praise. Or whatever."

"Sounds like you're in the right job then."

"Mm."

There's firewood around the back of the cottage, stacked up against the red planks that make up the cottage. Fred heaves himself up and Will - "Do I have to?" - grabbing him by the hands and tugging until they're both standing. Will has to tip his head back to meet Freddie's eyes when they're next to each other like this. His shoulders are slight.

Fred stacks wood into Will's arms. It's a weird reversal: he remembers being the small one, waiting with his arms outstretched as his grandfather did as he does now.

"If this gives me a splinter I'll sue," Will says, grinning, gaps between his teeth and sweet.

Fred rolls his eyes. 

The fire helps fend off the cool air from the water. Fred tries to imagine himself where he thought he'd be spending the summer; he'd planned to see his old teammates in California, travel around the south with Matty, maybe catch a few weeks in Toronto to squander the hours away on a rooftop bar along Front Street. He didn't imagine this. It's hard to imagine anything else, concretely, when he has this, though. A whisper of loud music and beautiful, smart girls talking to him before it's gone and he's watching Will break a stick into pieces in his hands before tossing it in the fire.

"What do you do anyways," Will asks. His vowels sound round again. "Do you use your muscles for work or are they just here for show?"

"I'm an athlete."

"Of course you are." Fred watches his mouth, the way his top lip doesn't bow so much as crescent over like a pink moon. "Soccer? You have good thighs for soccer."

"I'm a goaltender in the NHL."

Fred is used to people impressed by what he does. He's not used to what Will does, which is laugh.

"You're joking, right?" Will says, his ugly laugh falling from his mouth. When he laughs it is very hard for Freddie not to laugh along. His whole face crinkles up like a jack o lantern. "You googled me and now you're joking."

"I didn't google you."

"Fuck," Will says and then, "My dad played. So does my brother. He's on Chicago."

"Oh," Fred says. He hadn't really thought of it, where Will's name sounded familiar. He scans through hours of game film in his brain for a relative, some other gorgeous blond with a bratty smile. He comes up short. "That's cool."

"Yeah," Will says. He shakes his head like he's trying to get water out of his ears. "God. Small world, huh?"

"Did you ever play?"

Will's eyes are a bit hazy from the fire when he meets Fred's. "Can we talk about something else?"

Shit. "Yeah, of course."

He sighs, sticking his legs out, stretching them so the muscles go taught. Fred doesn't think he's ever seen anyone wear their own skin the way Will does. It fits him like his tailored white shirts, effortless, gilded across his shoulders and in the dark dips of his collarbone. His thighs remind Fred of the ciabatta loaves at the bakery in the atrium of his building, long and golden and plump, and they taper into lean calves. 

"I have marshmallows in the cottage," Fred says.

Will perks up. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not supposed to eat refined sugar," Will says. His top teeth are making two dimples in his pretty, pink bottom lip. "Or animal byproducts. Or anything that's not in the meal plans that my dietician sent me."

"I won't tell."

"Meg could be in the FBI," he says, earnest, his eyes wide. "She's like a bloodhound. She always knows when I've eaten Mcdonalds, even when she's halfway across the country."

Fred sticks his pinky out. "I promise I'll never tell on you to Meg."

The smile playing at William's mouth is cute. He eyes Fred's pinky like it's something surprising, but something wanted, and says, "Your funeral." His pinky is warm and dry around Fred's. 

The marshmallows are in the same place he left them: stuffed on one side of the kitchen counters, still in the bag from the ICA he stopped at on his way up. Fred stays by the kitchen sink for a minute, to peer out at William in the yard. He's scouring the area around the willow tree for marshmallow roasting sticks, eyes at his feet, taking large steps. 

Fred goes back outside with the bag of marshmallows. Will is holding one stick, long and thin, in his hands and walking in circles looking for another. Fred says, "My sister used to be in charge of stick picking."

"Really?" Will says, looking up. He looks happy, like he always does. 

Will would listen, if Fred told him about how their family used to run around on these grounds. He would like to hear the kinds of stories that fill Freddie's lungs when he's up here, the stories about picnics on the dock and pedal boat races to the island across the water. Will talks about his family like a religion and Fred can picture the way his eyes would light up, if Fred started telling stories under the stars.

Instead, he says, "You ready?"

For someone who isn't allowed to eat sugar, William does an excellent job of devouring the marshmallows. He makes grumpy noises after every one - "Oh now you've done it!" - but continues to stuff them in his mouth like a gerbil at a pet shop, cheeks round and chewing rapidly.

"I have an issue with junk food. It's borderline an addiction."

"No kidding."

"Fuck off," Will says, cheerful. He skewers a marshmallow on his roasting stick before angling it close to the embers. 

"So," Fred asks, sucking marshmallow off his finger. "What do you do in the morning? I feel like I only ever see you emerge after 1pm."

"Didn't realize you were looking for me."

Fred gives him a look. Will laughs. He tugs in his roasting stick and pulls a layer off his marshmallow, all crackled black skin. It slides off in one, leaving behind a wet, soft white. He stuffs the skin into his mouth and, over it, says, "I'm taking ASL classes. My instructor is in Paris, so we do them every morning from nine to eleven thirty."

"Oh." Fred learned how to sign his name once, when he was visiting a school with the Ducks a million years ago. "That's really cool. Do you have a friend who's deaf?"

"Nope," Will says, putting what remains of the marshmallow back into the fire. "I have ninety eight percent hearing loss in my right ear."

Fred looks at Will's right ear and then away, like the fire reached out and poked him. "Oh. Shit, my bad."

"I had a weird dream just after I broke up with my ex," Will says, eyes on his marshmallow. "And in it, no one could hear me speak. It was like I was underwater or something. And when I woke up I just - I searched for ASL classes online. And I really like it now. The language is beautiful."

The marshmallow at the end of Will's stick, all exposed white, is dripping. He turns it like a kid with a waffle cone at a fair until it burns along the side. Fred says, "I didn't realize you were partially deaf."

"Hard of hearing," Will says, bringing his marshmallow out of the fire. It's still on fire. His cheeks go round and red to blow it out. He peels this new layer of black peppered skin off and into his mouth. When Fred looks back over he has a kind look on his face. "I always sit so you're on my left side. It's okay if you didn't notice. My left ear is pretty good. It's only if the humidity changes suddenly - then I can get a bad headache and my ear starts ringing. I have a hearing aid for when I'm driving or if I'm in a big crowd."

"Were you - " Fred doesn't know how to ask questions. Fuck. "Is that something you're born with or-"

"I was in a really bad accident when I was 16," Will says. He smiles. "I broke my leg in two different places, see-" He wiggles, pushes his shorts up and Fred looks at fingers on the twisted white scar running down the inseam of his thigh. It is like a crack of lightning. "-and my arm too." 

Will's hands are cool when they grab one of Freddie's and run their fingers down the scar as one. It feels like the inside of a seashell and gleams like it too. Fred looks at his fingers, at Will's skin, at their skin touching skin in the firelight. 

"Was anyone else hurt?"

They're closer now. Fred keeps his hand on the hot skin of Will's thigh as Will shakes his head. "My older sister was driving me home for the weekend. Some guy ran through a red light. It gets kind of fuzzy for me after that." His skin is so so hot. It's hot like the fire and hot like Will's eyes, when they close halfway before looking back up at Fred. "It was hard to walk for awhile. Modelling helped."

"Because of your leg?"

"Because of my ear," Will says. "I was all off balanced."

Fred tries to picture it. He's seen guys after they break their legs, skin all fleshy and white, gross, when the cast comes off. It's hard to imagine: Will at 16, eyes big and scared in a hospital bed. Will at 16, unable to walk without an arm to hold. Fred's never met anyone with hearing loss except - oh - his mother's aunt. They visited her in a nursing home once. Freddie had to keep repeating everything he said so she could hear and eventually he just stopped talking.

"Hence the whole-" Will waves his hands around, "-quitting hockey thing."

"Right. Sorry."

"It's okay. You didn't know."

"Still," Fred says. His head feels like it's full of cotton balls, hard to think around. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Lemonade, right?" Will says. They're still touching. His hands are distracting, pulling shivers across Fred's skin as he tugs on fingers. "Nothing I can do about it. And it's - I hated it, for a long time. I don't anymore. Not even close."

Fred shakes the image of the hospital bed from his mind. "I'm glad."

"Anyways," Will curls his fingers around Fred's and moves them up, off his skin. "I can teach you how to say your name in ASL, if you want?"

The light of the fire is putting shapes on Will's face. Fred thinks about Mitch telling him to go for it. He thinks about himself, and how he usually is, how he takes up space in rooms. He thinks about how if Will was another boy in the city right now he would already have traced his fingers up Will's thigh, would have gotten really close and kissed his neck. 

So Fred grins. "I'd rather know yours."

"Flirt."

"Yeah." He moves closer, shifts across the blanket on the ground. Will lets him. "I've been flirting with you all night."

"I know." Will says, coy. He lets go of Fred's hand. He holds his own out in front of the fire, says, "My name is easy, because you repeat a lot of the letters. And the letters look like the sound. Does that make sense? Like M sounds like a bump on a log. So when you sign M, you - " he holds his fist for Fred to see, his thumb between his ring and pinky finger. Will's other hand comes up to run over the groove of his knuckles, "- see?"

Fred mimics the letter. 

Will's name comes slowly. Fred likes the way William signs his own name, this practiced, sured way. He likes the way Will's thumb moves from A to M, the action of it dragging along skin and the accompanying whisper that is almost hushed by the fire. He likes how William looks at Fred as he signs.

Fred tries. "How did I do?"

"A natural," Will says. He shakes his fingers out to the fire. 

Fred runs his hands through the name again. His fingers stretch out, three, into a W. Then his pinky, up. Two quick Ls with his thumb and forefinger, another I, a curled fist for A, and M. He thinks about his name, and how it sounds in Will's mouth. He wonders if this is the same. 

He looks over to see Will watching him and his fingers. "What?"

William shakes his head. His nose is pink. He points at Freddie and then, with two fingers, brushes against his chin downward, like he's flicking something off his chin. 

"I'm…something. What does that mean? What did you say?"

"Don't worry about it."

"William." Fred says. Will does it again, one finger pointed to Fred and then two brushing against his chin. The way he signs is slow and calm, like he is. Fred reaches out and grabs his hand, "Okay, enough of that."

Will laughs. 

He's close. The fire is making everything warm. Fred drops his hand. Will's cheek is soft, when Fred touches it with fingers, hesitant and then clutching. The pink of his mouth has gone gold in the light. Fred feels shivers all over his body, starting in the base of his spine and winding their way over his ribcage like Christmas lights on a tree, binding and shimmering. It's difficult to breathe, wanting this much.

Will doesn't pull away.

His mouth is sweet. Fred licks his top lip and tastes burnt marshmallow. Everywhere smells like fire and bug spray. One of Will's hands comes to wrap around Fred's wrist, holding him. His thumb fits in the dip between bones and it's sticky, too, with white. Fred leans forward, into him, and gets his other hand around the bend in William's knee. 

"Will," Fred breathes, into the pink of his mouth, and then Will is pulling away, turning his cheek to Fred's next kiss.

"I should sleep," he says.

Fred can feel his own chest rising and falling. "Oh."

"Sorry," he's pulling away, "Sorry, god, I have to be up early." Will's legs unfold and push up, like stems on a sunflower, tall and straight. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

Fred watches him walk to his cottage. He watches the light come on over the stovetop. That light is soon turned off, to be replaced by the one at the top of the house. The attic. Fred looks away, back into the fire, where the embers are white and sparks crackle as they hit the cool air of the night. Fred's lips are dry.

v.

Fred replays it in his head until it becomes familiar, like his mom's favourite song: the fire on Will's face, his ugly laugh, how he let Freddie touch his face, let Freddie kiss him. The memory creeps up on Fred as he drives to the grocery store halfway across town. He sees Will in the blond hair of the teenager ringing through his bag of potatoes, in the display next to the cash with bottles of sunscreen. 

At the risk of sounding like an ass, people usually make up their mind about Fred. Whether that's wanting to fuck him or not wanting to fuck him, regardless, they decide on one of the options. And it doesn't really seem like William's made up his mind about either, if he's honest.

"Fuck it," Fred says, emphatically, to himself, in his car in the parking lot. He stares out the window. "Fuck it, I don't care."

He continues working on the house when he's home, after storing the groceries in the cooler. He gets the saw the Hammons leant him set up outside the front of the cottage. His dad sent him to Sweden with a toolkit and he digs up a mask, plastic safety goggles that are scratched to hell, and a little pencil to tuck behind his ear. He measures every component of the bannister; it's gone to hell, wobbly and dangerous, the stairs all warped. He cuts equal pieces from the wood he bought. 

It stops him every once and awhile, that his grandfather used to make the drive from Herning every weekend, so he could work on this cottage. Fred's grandmother told him that it became near an obsession, the way he would pick trees from the forest to cut before he shaped them, set them, and used them to build the outer walls. His dad was only just old enough to remember when they painted the place red. He told Fred, back when they were kids and the ferry ride would make Fred seasick, that he remembered the cottage when it didn't have a toilet.

"You kids are lucky Farfar removed the outhouse," he would say, gesturing wildly with his hands as the ferry lurched across the Oresund Strait. "It was not a fun job, to have to clean that."

"Gross!" 

It's strange to think. His grandfather spent his whole life building this place and Fred can tear down a bannister in an afternoon.

When he's finished measuring and cutting, he stacks the planks up next to the kitchen counters. There's not much to eat that doesn't require starting a fire for the oven, but Fred can't be bothered right now. He goes through his shopping items and makes himself a sandwich. He eats inside for the first time in days, pulled up to the kitchen counter so he has somewhere to rest his phone and plate while he eats. Better hot and cramped inside than accidentally bumping into Will outside. 

But it's all for nought.

Will comes by as he's midway through a video about stair revival. He knocks on the doorframe of the screen door to the back. He's holding something in his hands. 

"Hi," he says, bright. "Would it be okay if I came in?"

Fred nods, steps aside. He tries to imagine the cottage through Will's eyes. It's dark. It's dusty to hell, not helped by the recent demolitions. The windows are gone yellow and cracked, providing limited sunlight. The light that does reach the room highlights where he's torn up the floor, revealing cold stone underneath.

"Oh boy," Will says. "No wonder I could hear so many noises coming from your place today."

He looks clean and light. His shirt says  _ Don't Doubt the Trout! _ and he's wearing a backwards snapback the colour of lilac. In his hands is a plate of cookies. They look - healthy.

"I made you I'm Sorry cookies," Will says. "Except Meg called me today and reminded me that I'm not supposed to eat chocolate. Or flour, if I can help it. Or like. Basically anything that makes you feel joy and, like, happy. So they're mostly oats and also peanut butter. And I didn't have raisins, so I put sunflower seeds in them?"

Fred nods again. 

"I promise they don't taste as gross as they sound," Will says. 

"They sound pretty gross."

Will's laugh echoes through the construction zone. He puts the plate of cookies onto the counter and looks around, as if for a place to sit, and decides that next to his cookies is the best plan of action.

"Careful," Fred says. "Those cupboards could go down at any minute."

"I'll take my chances."

Will's heels bump in a steady rhythm. Fred steps closer, to grab a cookie, and then pulls his chair back. He sits. The cookie tastes - healthy. It's hard to chew. Will's watching him with his light eyes. 

"They're -" Fred starts. He tries again, "They have character."

"I'm sorry I didn't kiss you back," Will says. Fred chokes on a sunflower seed. He takes a sip of water and Will continues, looking down at his own hands. "I didn't tell you the whole story, when we were out on the dock. And I guess it sort of scared me. When you kissed me."

"I wouldn't have, if I didn't think you wanted me to."

"I did," Will says, looking at Fred again. "I really, really wanted you to. It's just. Complicated."

Fred nods. He takes another bite of the cookie. He's not entirely sure what the legal definition of a cookie is, but sugar should definitely be a requirement. Also chocolate chips. He swallows down a bite and some water before he says, "So why are you up here for the summer, then?"

"Do you want to hear the truth?" Will asks, after a second. "Or a lie?"

Fred can't help a smile. "Why would I want to hear a lie?"

"It might be funnier. I could make up a great lie that's way more interesting and funny than the truth."

If William's cottage was an expression of what he is, beautiful and eclectic and strange and light, then maybe Fred's is too. He feels oddly exposed, for someone not currently being questioned. He fiddles with the pencil tucked behind his ear and waits. 

"I broke up with someone," Will says, finally. "And it was a long time coming and I guess I didn't trust myself to be anywhere he's seen me before. So I came here."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"I don't lie," Will says looking over at Fred, sea glass. "Not unless you ask me to, to make the story more interesting."

"Were you together for a long time?"

"Eight years," and then, a hum, "With a lot of off-ing and on-ing in between."

Fred nods. He watches Will's legs sway against the counter, his thighs pressing against the fabric of his ripped jean shorts. He says, "And what does that have to do with our kiss?"

The sigh sounds loud in the quiet. "You know him."

"What?" 

"You know him," Will says, his mouth downturned. "Last night, I really wanted you to kiss me and then you told me. Well. You said you play for the NHL. And so does my ex."

Fred's not sure what he's been picturing this whole time, when Will would say "my ex" with this weight. Maybe another version of Gaspard, French and mysterious. Maybe a handsome older guy who travelled him around the world and bought him pearls. Or maybe a designer looking for a muse, someone who would sketch drawings of William's straight nose. 

He wasn't picturing - that.

"Who is he?"

"Is that really important?" Will asks.

Fred opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again to say, "Sort of, yeah."

William tells him. He looks vaguely guilty and Fred remembers how he said his ex was in Toronto for work last spring. He wonders how many times Will's been watching from a box while Fred was getting scored on by his boyfriend, dressed up in black and gold, a  _ B _ over his chest.

"We broke up a few months ago," Will says. "And things weren't good, for a while, toward the end. And when you told me that you played hockey, it felt like I was slipping? Does that make sense?"

"You met before your accident," Fred says, putting the pieces together in his mind. He remembers a half story, something about Pastrnak moving to Sweden to play hockey before he was drafted.

"Yeah."

"You played together, before you were hurt."

Will nods. "Yeah."

Fred runs his pointer finger over his thumbnail. 

"I told my therapist about it," Will says, and then he's laughing at himself, quiet, "I know that sounds maybe. Maybe a bit dramatic. But I explained to her what happened and she told me that I'm blaming you for things you haven't done yet. And that's not exactly fair, is it?"

Fred works through the words in his head. He shakes them up and then puts them back down again until they make sense. He nods. Looks at Will, still perched in his grandfather's decaying kitchen. His nose is pink, like he was out on the hammock before he came to join Fred. 

There are very few things Fred wants to do less than kiss William. He says, slow, "Do I have to make I Accept Your Apology cookies, or can I just say it out loud?"

Will laughs. "I won't say no to more cookies."

"But will Meg?" Fred asks. He stands up, crosses the short distance between them. "I don't want an investigation against me."

"I'll be your witness in court."

"Oh yeah?" Fred steps between Will's spread thighs, puts his hands on his knees. Will's arms come around his neck, pull Fred's face so they're sharing the same breath. 

"Yeah," Will says and then they're kissing.

It feels like how every kiss in high school felt, that feeling like Fred can't breathe or think or move too suddenly, lest this be taken away. Will's mouth is hot and sweet against Fred. He tastes like wild apples and his terrible cookies. Fred slips one of his hands around Will's ribs to pull him closer. It draws a soft noise from Will, mostly breath, and he breaks off to hide his face in Freddie's neck. His breath is hot but his lips are gentle, when they kiss a line over Fred's skin.

"You're good at that," Will says, quiet, before he laughs, quiet too. 

"We're good at it."

Fred dips his face so they can kiss again. It feels like winning, Will's small mouth open for him, his cheeks soft and smooth under Fred's lips. One of Will's knees comes around Fred's back to drag him in closer and he goes, goes until they're pressed up against each other. Fred knows William is smaller than him, knows that his bones and muscles have been formed to be used while William's are to be looked at. It's still something, though, to feel the shift of Will's shoulders under his shirt, his skin, and Fred's hand, to reach back and feel the slight of his calf in a straight line down Fred's backside. 

Time seems to slow down, until the only thing Fred is aware of is the shift of light across William's skin when he pulls back to lay a row of hickies down the line of Will's throat. Will's hands slip down between the cracks of shirt and skin and skim over Fred's collarbone, his neck, his heartbeat. Will's tongue, soft and clever, runs along the shell of Fred's ear before he lays wet kisses to the skin behind it, the fragile parts, his breath a welcome noise. 

Fred's just thinking about asking to move this somewhere a little more horizontal when Will squirms in his arms.

"My phone," he says, pressing against Fred's hands, and reaching into his back pocket. His mouth is red and swollen, neck scattered with pink marks, hair tousled. The light from his cell casts white blue light on both of them. "Shit, I was supposed to call Alex."

"Call him later," Fred says, leaning in so he can suck at the taught skin under Will's jaw.

"I can't," he says, wiggling away from Fred's mouth. He's smiling but holding himself out of reach. "I told him I would chat last night and I totally forgot."

He slides off the counter. Smiles at Fred. 

"That will happen again," he says. "If you want it to. Do you want it to?"

Fred nods. William laughs and pats him over his heart once.

"Sweet," he says before he leans up to kiss Fred's cheek and step around him toward the screen door.

The house is quiet in his retreat. It looks more akin to some kind of disaster, a reckoning, than the recovery. Fred eyes the floorboards and the neatly stacked wood he spent all morning cutting, his drill and the little tin of drill bits, and decides to go for a swim instead.

At least the lake will cool down his racing heart and thoughts. 

Freddie swims out into the lake, all the way to the island. He forces himself through a proper workout, all the swimming strokes his teacher back home taught him, until clouds come around the bend. The whole sky goes from bright and sunny to something grey, muggy, and heavy. He pulls himself onto the dock as droplets start painting the worn wood freckled, coming together to make large shapes, masses. Fred only just makes it back to the cottage when the storm really comes in, heavy rain pelting the window. 

With one of the old towels from the closet, Fred towels his hair dry. Water is water, but the raindrops feel different on his skin, colder and harsher. He watches the storm seep across the bay, the way everything is left in shades of dark blue. 

The first crack of lightning is bright.

Fred puts on a sweater and looks out at the rain, bouncing off the water in sheets. He thinks about starting a fire in the oven. He thinks about any tools he might have left outside. He thinks about William's house and the fireplace and the cozy couch, the stove that runs off gas, the WiFi, the blankets. The boy. Maybe especially the boy. 

Thunder rumbles across the bay. Freddie stands up and looks for his raincoat.

He makes it to Will's front door in record time, jumping over growing puddles in the space between their two yards. His sandals send splashes of dirty water over his calves when he slips into one. By the time he reaches Will's cottage, Fred is sure he resembles a drowned tabby cat. 

"Uh huh," Will is saying, when he opens the door. His phone is pressed to his ear. His smile is wide, at Fred's wet hair, his wet jeans, everything wet and dripping. "Give me one second, kay?" He opens the door wide enough for Fred to walk in and hits the mute button on his phone. Says: "Raining out?"

"Yep."

"Let me get you some towels," Will says, stepping away and towards the staircase in the corner. He holds a hand out, "Don't you dare move anywhere. I swept the floors yesterday."

Fred obediently stands on the little welcome mat at the door. He takes stock of what's changed: there is a little pot of incense burning in the middle of the long table, next to Will's closed Macbook. A bowl of grapes is next to it, plump and green. There's music coming from somewhere and, when Fred looks around, there's a small suitcase record player on an end table in the hallway on the way to the living room. It's playing something soft, the kind of beats that the guys in the locker room play when they have something else to focus on.

"Okay," Will says, coming back with an armful of towels. The one on top is stripes of peach and coral and fluffy. Will puts the other ones on the table and waits until Fred unzips his jacket to toss it around his head. His hands are gentle as they rub the wet dry, his eyes soft. "My mother told me that you can catch your death, going out in the rain without a proper coat."

"So did mine."

Will rises on his toes to smack his lips against Fred's before he drops back. "I'm going to keep chatting with Alex. But feel free to get comfy on the couch, okay?"

Fred listens. There is a neat stack of firewood in a corner of the mudroom so Fred gets a little fire going in the fireplace, watching it crackle. He strips off his wet clothes and hangs them from a wooden rocking chair, gets cozy in just his shirt and briefs under a blanket. William's one million pillows are soft and the blanket is fluffy and it doesn't take long before Fred is half dozing. The sound of the rain against the windows, the soft music, the quiet chatter and laughter as William talks to his family in the kitchen; Fred blinks and when he opens his eyes, Will is perched on the couch next to him, smiling down at him.

"Hey there."

"Hi," Fred says, then clears his throat for croaks. "I fell asleep."

"You sure did. Move over?"

Fred shifts, turning himself so there's enough space for a long boy to lie down next to him. He pulls up the patchwork quilt and Will slides under it, against him. They fit like two apostrophes, curled into one another. His body is warm and soft, the hoodie from the other night and a pair of grey sweatpants brushing against the part of Fred that's still damp. Fred kisses his face. 

"Warmed up?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad you came over," Will says, pressing his hands under Fred's shirt to his skin. "I was worried about you alone in there. You and your planks of wood."

Fred's brain is still mostly soup, thick and syrupy. He tucks his face into the couch, closes his eyes, and Will brushes his damp curls from his temple. 

"Alex is in Spain," he says. His hands feel spiritual, something to be remembered and praised, as they tug little knots out and soothe. One of his hands traces Fred's ear. "Him and a dozen of his closest friends are at this EDM festival for the weekend."

"Is it the weekend?"

"Apparently it's the weekend," William says. "Calendars are for cowards."

Fred laughs. Through his closed eyes he can see soft orange go to black as Will leans over him to give him a whisper kiss on the nose. 

"He spent all night throwing up in the bathroom because he ate some food a random girl gave him," Will continues, his voice soft to match the day. The record has stopped. "So he mostly sounded like a bullfrog after a night of partying. But it was good to hear from him. Any other summer and I would have been with him, probably throwing up too."

"Gross." He opens one eye to see William's eyes on him.

"Very gross."

They make out for a bit. Fred sneaks his hands up the back of William's sweater to feel his skin, kisses him as his hands dip lower and lower. The calluses on Fred's palms make William shiver when he runs them down the small of his back. There's always a distraction though and this time is no different, Fred's stomach grumbling like a plane during take off.

"Oh boy."

"I'm good," Fred says, into William's mouth. "Fine."

"You're the size of a school bus," William says, bumping their noses together. "If I don't feed you soon, you'll start eating my arm."

They have pasta in front of the fire, Will's legs over Freddie's lap. There's a little herb garden in the front of the cottage and William has jars full of fresh basil and rosemary; it tastes homemade, in a way that isn't true of everything made in your own kitchen, and Fred has to disrupt Will's legs to get a second helping. When he returns Will is lying on the rug in front of the fire, eyes closed.

He never looks anything but good. The sun has turned Will's hair the colour of corn husks and his nose sprinkled with marigold freckles. He looks like what summer should be: golden and joyful and ripe. There's a part of Fred that wants to hide him away in a box and keep him close, so he can warm his winters. The other part of Fred wants to keep him here as a memory, a polaroid boy he can put on his fridge and remember when he listens to the right songs.

"I'm trying to imagine you and Pasta together," Fred says, later, when they're back in position. He keeps his hands around William's knees, one on his thigh, keeps him close. 

"What do you mean?"

"He's so - goofy. Funny." Fred doesn't know what he's trying to say. He thought William's type would be suits in dimly lit restaurants, pea coats and sleek watches. Not an outlandish Czech dude who's nickname is a type of carbohydrate. "I don't know him that well but. I can't imagine him in your house, with all your candles and flowers and paintings."

Will looks at him for a second before smiling. "I wouldn't exactly imagine you here either, Frederik."

Fred opens his mouth. Closes it. "Fair point."

"When I met him, he hadn't chipped his tooth yet," Will says, half wistful, half nonchalant. "I remember being so furious with him. I wouldn't look at him for a week. I had a nice, handsome boyfriend, and he went ahead and ruined his face."

"Hockey's a dangerous sport."

"I know," William says, looking at Fred like he said something stupid. Which -

"Of course you do. Sorry."

"That's okay. I just. Spent half my life telling this boy to wear a mouth guard and not go flying into every situation like a tornado. And he would just make me laugh and call me a worrier and forget all about it."

Fred runs his hand down William's calf and back up, under the leg of his sweat pants so he can force the hair the other way. He tries to picture William in Boston, wearing face makeup at a game or in one of those homemade jean jackets. And then, quickly, William in blue and white instead, dancing in a box with all the other guys' partners, _ Andersen _ across his back.

"You said it was a long time coming," Fred says. "The breakup."

"Yeah," William says. His thumb lifts to Freddie's jaw and rubs at it, slow. "This winter, I walked in New York fashion week. Which is. A pretty big deal. And it's not like I had a big role or anything, but I walked in St. Laurent and it mattered to me and. And he couldn't be there. Because he had a game in Dallas. And I-"

Will stops, looks at Fred with his luminescent eyes. "This might sound trivial. But I've been to almost every playoff game of his and this was really important to me. And there were other events and days, when I really wanted him to be there. And I guess I was sick of his job being more important than mine."

A log slumps in the fire, making sparks fly up toward the chimney. Fred's never been to a fashion show. Black chairs and weird lighting and Will's cheeks brushed with makeup to make his cheekbones sharper.

"The distance was also hard," Will says. 

"That makes sense."

"Have you ever done it before?" He picks up one of Fred's hands, the one that was inching further up his thigh. Plays with his fingers. "Long distance?"

Fred thinks for a second. Shakes his head.

"You like Toronto boys?"

"I don't date very much," Fred says. 

"That I don't believe." Will grins, cheeky, and presses his mouth to Fred's. "Handsome guy like you? I bet you're beating them off with a stick."

"Let me rephrase. I meet people."

"Oh I see."

"But I don't date much," Fred says. He runs his thumb over William's knuckles. "I'm not exactly the type to pick someone up from the airport."

Will turns slippery, like some kind of water body, tugging his legs out of Fred's lap. He's in motion, grinning, pushing himself up to his knees and then climbing so he has one knee on either side of Fred. He puts his arms along Fred's shoulder. Fred has to tilt his chin back to get a good look at him.

"What a shame."

Fred kisses his chin. "Yeah."

"You'll be a bachelor forever, with that attitude," William says. It's so easy to slip hands under his sweater, watch him squirm under Fred's touch. "It's important."

"It isn't."

"Is," Will says. He doesn't blush, cheeks already pink from the afternoon sun. "You know, when you drop your bags and jump into the other person's arms? David used to twirl me around in circles until I got dizzy."

"Oh god," Fred says. He can picture it too well, William's laugh in the grey airport corridors. "I bet everyone else in the Arrivals section hated you."

"We were in love," Will says, smiling. His fingers poke Fred's shoulder and then stay there, little circles of warmth. "Everyone knows that when you're in love, you can do silly stuff like that."

"It's - cheesy. It's contrived."

"It's fun," Will says, simple. "One day you'll love someone so much, then you'll get it."

He still has his thighs split open over Fred's lap. Fred holds his waist like he used to hold the chickens in his yard growing up: careful and triumphant and firm. 

Fred kisses him. He can't seem to stop, now that he's started. Fred likes being close to William more than anyone he's ever kissed, likes to press their noses together, likes to kiss the skin around his mouth to feel it under his lips. Will makes a wealth of noises, breaths and sighs, mumbled agreements, sweet giggles when Fred's hand dips below his waistband to touch his ass, and then a throaty whine when he cups a cheek, fingertips reaching between.

"Mm," Will says. He pulls back, mouth like the mulberries that fall off the drooping branches in the lane behind their cottages and stain the ground purple. "Now what do you think you're doing?"

"We should go to your room."

Will laughs. It's so ugly every time and it feels like something squeezing at Fred's heart. "Oh we should, should we?"

He's soft everywhere. "If you want."

"I have a single bed," Will says. He still has his arms around Freddie's neck, legs hitched around Fred's hips. He looks cute like that, like a boyfriend in a movie about teenagers from the eighties. 

Fred runs the fingers of his free hand down Will's throat. "Why do you have a single bed?"

"Because," Will says and then he lets out a hitching noise. Fred trails a finger down from his tailbone, over the soft skin and hair between his cheeks. "Because I wasn't going to hook up with anyone. This retreat was about finding myself."

"And how's that been working for you."

Will bites Fred's earlobe. Fred laughs. One hand leaves Fred's shoulder and reaches behind, loops around Fred's wrist where it's just peeking out of Will's pants. His eyes, sleepy and warm and hot in the light of the fire, would be disapproving, if not for the smile on his lips.

He kisses him again, slips his hand from Will's ass and pushes his shirt up instead. He has a mole above his belly button and Fred has to crane his neck to kiss it, trails his lips up, kisses the soft skin around Will's nipple. William's hand in his hair is grounding, his breaths sweet. His chest is pushing into Fred's mouth like he doesn't want it to stop.

"Fred," William whines. He isn't tugging his shirt down.

One thumb brushes over the other nipple. He kisses his heart.

"Frederik." It's something in his mouth, that name. 

"Still storming out," Fred says, against skin. He lays wet kisses across William's chest. With one hand he holds it up to Will's neck while the other clutches him closer, his thin stomach and the ribs that press up against his skin when he breathes in deep. Fred continues, "You wouldn't kick me out, not while there's still a storm going on."

"I might."

"You wouldn't."

William tugs Fred's head up. He kisses him slow, hot, his open mouth sighing warm air against Fred's face. He says, "I really do have a single bed."

"You're ridiculous."

"We're really not going to fuck tonight," Will says, moving until his eyelashes brush against Fred's. "Mostly because I'm tired. But also, I don't have any condoms. That's two good reasons." 

"I like the way your mouth says fuck."

Fond: "Fredrik."

They meander to bed, spreading the embers out over the fire until they smoke and simmer and die. William holds both of Fred's hands with his own as he walks him up the back stairwell, toward the secret attic he's thought about a few too many times. 

It's small, small like Fred's loft. It runs long but not wide. The walls are papered with green stripes, covered with more framed paintings and maps. Along the far right wall is a round mirror with a big frame; under it is a skinny table, laden with frames holding photos of the same blond family, grinning friends, and a photo of William alone, his smile brighter than Fred's ever seen, surrounded by trees somewhere. The bed is against the left wall, up pressed to the window Fred can see from the yard, and it's long and thin too, like Will. The bedspread is pure white, but for an edging of linen lace with tassels that brush the floor. A mustard throw blanket is neatly folded on top of the bed. 

The ceiling slopes in on both sides. Fred ducks his head while William peels back the bedspread. He fluffs one of the three pillows stacked awkwardly at the head between his hands and says, "I told you it's small."

They squeeze in together, Fred flat on his back and William wedged on his side, back against the wall. They have to share a pillow and Fred's feet hang off the end of the bed. 

"I might crawl over you to pee in the middle of the night," Will whispers. The room is dark. "I'm apologizing now."

"We can switch spots, if you want."

William shakes his head into Fred's chest, says, "Then I won't be able to hear you as well."

They kiss, because they're getting pretty good at it now. Will sneaks his hand down Fred's chest and tucks itself into his boxers. He asks - "Is this okay?" - and giggles at Fred's enthusiastic groan. His hand is warm and dry, curious and sweet, as it strokes Fred's dick, brushes at his balls, thumbs at the head over and over, until Fred is gasping into his mouth and coming into William's palm.

"Can you pass me a tissue," Will whispers, up against Fred's cheek. "They're just on the bedside table."

Fred does. He feels like, despite the dark, he can see his breath rising from his own mouth and it must be golden, like magic in a movie. He can't see but he can hear William fussing with the tissue, wiping it between his fingers.

"Gross," he mutters, and Fred blindly searches for his mouth in the dark. He gets his ear and Will giggles again. 

"Do you want me to-" he asks, fingers at William's hip.

A hand reaches down, links Fred's fingers with Will's and pulls up. "No, thank you."

William turns to face the wall and Fred crowd up behind him. They're both too big for this bed and he knows he's going to wake up hot and grumpy, with an ache along his hip from sleeping on it all night. Everything about William is soft but especially the triangle of skin between his shoulder blades and his neck. Fred puts his nose there and closes his eyes. 

vi.

"What are you doing?" Will asks, mouth mushed against Fred's shoulder, eyes still closed in sleep. Fred has been up for the better part of an hour, one leg fully off the bed, his head propped up by a folded over pillow so he can look at his phone. 

"Shopping online for a king sized mattress that can be shipped here," Fred says, voice throaty from disuse. He clears it. 

William laughs, tucks his face into Fred's armpit. 

The room is beautiful in the light, warm and rustic. Fred looks at how the sunlight shimmers off the mirror, colours every flower around the room in gold. The blankets are pooled around their hips and William's soft sleep shirt has risen up, enough that Fred can just see where his hip bone juts out, golden skin over bone. Will's breath tickles against Fred's skin.

There's an old map of New York City on the wall along the bed and Fred's eyes trace the streets he's familiar with. He wonders where Will's apartment is. Some of the photos in the living room show the same friends against a wall of windows. Fred knows that most apartments in New York are small and he's sure William's is no different. It's hard to picture, Will waking up in a loud city. Hard to picture him out on the street with everyone else, in a grey wool coat and uninterested stare.

"What time is it?" William asks, in Swedish.

"Eight forty-five."

William lets out a noise through his nose, like something a horse would make. It makes Fred laugh until they're kissing again, sour mouth and breath not really hot but warm. 

In the kitchen, William has glass jars full of muesli, a pint of yoghurt, and a container of knäckebröd, that he lays out with two plates and two bowls on the table. Freddie watches as more little bowls fill up the table: three different round, pastel bowls each containing a different pile of berries. Then a shallow dish with thinly cut ham and turkey, a jar of sunflower seeds, another jar of flax, and what looks like nutritional yeast. Finally, a plate with slices of cheese and plump little tomatoes, set to Freddie's left.

"Hungry?"

"Fuck off," Will says, laughing. He takes the seat across from Fred and slips his knee between Fred's. "I've fed an athlete before, thanks. Besides, I didn't know what you like. I've been eating a lot more Scandinavian up here."

Fred takes a knäckebröd and layers it high with cheese and meat, cuts a tomato slice to add on top, and crushes it in two bites. William, who had only just started spooning muesli into a bowl, laughs, delighted. 

"You're a monster," he says, grinning.

Summers have weird timing. They seem so slow at times, like dripping water running down skin. Other times they speed up, so quick you can barely catch your breath. The moments before Fred was allowed to kiss William, scrapping honey from the dredges of the jar. And now that he gets to kiss William goodbye for the next few hours, gets to touch the corners of his smile with thumbs, it's like he's trying to capture photos of the countryside while on a train.

They go for a run together that afternoon, William's top knot and crop top a welcome staple, now that Fred can put his hand on soft skin. They trace the lake once and then sit in the shallows on the other side, near an abandoned dock and not a soul for miles, to dip their hot feet in the cool water and watch the clouds. It feels simple and endless, pushing himself up on an elbow to hang over William's face and kiss him, but then Fred blinks and - 

\- they're falling asleep in William's too small bed again, bellies warm with dinner, and Will's hands are everywhere, his body hot, his mouth wet and warm and perfect when he ducks down to take the head of Fred's dick into it. He hides beneath the duvet, just the shape of his shoulders under the white and Fred has to put a hand out against the wall when he comes, when Will swallows him down like it's his job, and he opens his eyes to see him peeking out from the duvet, smile mischievous -

\- the next morning, fingering William until he's squirming and hot in Fred's hands, making pleas into Fred's skin. Fred whispers in his ear until William giggles and says, "Wrong ear, silly, I can't hear you," and then he's blushing, stretching his fingers so William blushes too, so he drags his nails down Fred's shoulder, evidence that smarts when he's tugging on a shirt, later, Will still flushed and shy in bed - 

\- the days melt until it's July and hot so they eat lunch up against the willow tree, basking in its shade. William lets Fred doze in his lap, hands light over his hair. It's gone all curly and long because Fred's stopped trying to keep it looking good. Will rubs his knuckles, soft, over Fred's temples. He's reading this book about the history of textiles and every time Fred opens his eyes he regales him with another fact, face sweet.

"I never really liked school," William says, when Fred sits up to stretch, popping his bones and shifting his muscles. "I never had any patience for sitting still. But I really like learning new things. And I'm getting better at focusing on things for longer periods of time."

Fred touches his chin. 

"Maybe the international athlete sleeping on me helps," Will says, teasing. "Couldn't go anywhere, even if I wanted to."

They borrow a canoe from the Hammons a few days later. The couple seem pretty aware that they haven't come up for air the last week based on their matching winks, but lend them paddles and lifejackets. They reach the island. Will goes on a quest to find cool stones on the shoreline while Fred retraces his steps from decades ago. He finds the old tree with the hollowed out center, where his sister and he used to hide treats at the beginning of the summer to find later on. They were always discovered by red squirrels before the time at the cottage ended. Now, their secret cavern is piled high with green moss.

Fred thinks about texting his sister to let her know. He doesn't.

They have sandwiches on the rocks for lunch and then William drags him out to swim, their bodies white under the water. Fred can feel his shoulders going crisp and red with sun, but he ignores it, lets Will hitch his legs around Fred's hip. Fred tugs them back to shallower shores, so he can find footing while William rocks against him, his gasps sounding just as good in the cool lake as they do back in his bedroom. 

The tiles arrive for the bathroom so Fred spends a morning laying them down. Will's instructor, Eloise, is away for a few days so he comes by to help, which mostly consists of him playing music and watching Fred work, because there isn't enough space in the bathroom for one man, let alone two. Together they tear the old staircase down and build a ladder in its place. 

William has a lot of interior decorating ideas and gets all starry eyed when he talks about curtains and rugs and couches. Fred always has to take him gently by the elbows and show him how the window in the loft is still so weathered, you can't open it without ripping the whole thing out.

"I'm just  _ saying _ ."

"In time."

Will sits in between the rungs of the ladder while Fred measures the flooring, practicing sentences for his upcoming test with Eloise.

"She says it's just to know what progress we've made," Will says, slow, his hands moving along as he talks. The more Fred watches him sign, the more he sees the patterns from Will's speech come out. "But I'm still nervous. Give me more stuff to sign."

Fred says every word he knows and more, as he marks each board with his pencil. William dutifully signs them back and makes a note in his phone for any that he hasn't learned yet. It's slow and warm, what summer should be. Fred eventually gets up from kneeling on his knee pad and comes over to William, who's swinging his legs, looking for a distraction.

"Penguin," Fred says.

William puts his hands to his side, hands stuck out perpendicular, and wiggles in his seat. He laughs and says, "That's one of my favourites."

"Lion."

He makes a claw with his hand and drags it from his forehead through his hair, like he's pushing back his mane. His face goes scrunched like he's in the middle of a roar, dramatic and silly, and Fred laughs.

"Cute," he says.

William bites his lip against a smile and raises two fingers to his chin, flicking at it downward. It's the same motion from the fire weeks ago. Fred kisses him and kisses him and they spend the rest of the afternoon in his bed, spoiled with space and time.

Two days later and Will invites Fred along to town. His Volkswagen is old and orange and cramped. Fred pushes the passenger back as far as it will go and still has his knees bumping up against the glove container. The console has a bright blue AUX cord hanging from it and William attaches his phone, unlocking it and dropping it in the cup holder. 

He turns the engine over and immediately rolls down the window. "The AC has been broken since I got the car, so I recommend you get your window too." 

Fred's only ever seen William around the cottage and it's a sight to see him dressed for other eyes. His shirt is white and drapes over his shoulders, with a small pocket over his heart with an embroidered sun on it. It tucks into his light wash denim, rolled up to the ankle. From the other cupholder, Will grabs a glasses case and takes a pair of sunglasses out, brown lenses and leopard print frames.

"Prescription," he says, and then, pointing to his phone: "Feel free to put anything on."

Will is a fun person to drive with. He sings along to songs he knows and dances in his chair, grinning over at Freddie the whole time, poking him at stop signs to dance along. The roads are windy here, with few cars and bumpy roads eroded by weather. The town isn't too far of a hike and it's small, rows of neat cottages, a florist, a post office, and the market.

They find street parking on the main strip, two blocks of antique stores and gift shops, a cheese shop and a bakery. William doesn't try and hold Fred's hand but he drags him into the antique store immediately, eyes wide and excited.

"It's eleven thirty," Fred reminds him, "We want to eat lunch soon."

"It'll just take a minute," Will says, "Twenty minutes. Probably forty-five."

William finds a set of Victorian lampshades in velvet with dripping lace all along the outside. Fred holds them for him as he meanders through the small clothing section, his hands brushing the sleeve of every jacket like they're sacred, pulling the ones he likes out. He finds a fluffy coat that makes him look like a teddy bear when he tries it on, soft and light brown. That goes in Fred's arms as well, along with a grey turtleneck and three handkerchiefs of silk. 

"Oh this is perfect for you," Will says, turning with a coat hanger. On it is a biker style leather jacket, with worn elbows and shoulders. 

"I don't need a jacket."

"It's not about needing," William says, and he's taking his things in his arms so he can shove the coat at Fred. "It's about if it  _ fits _ . I love vintage shopping because you don't choose the clothes, the clothes choose you. It's destiny."

"Like in Harry Potter?" but he's putting his arms through the sleeves. It's cool material on the inside, soft on the outside. 

William makes a cooing noise as he sets his things on a nearby chair. He's immediately fussing with Fred, adjusting the collar of the worn leather around his neck, pulling at his shirt and tucking it into the front of his jeans. Small hands shift the material until it's sitting the way Will wants it to, and then he's taking a step back to appraise.

"You'll be fighting them off with a stick."

"Yeah?"

"There's a mirror over there," Will says, pointing with his chin to the left. 

Fred looks more like himself than he has for a while. The jacket hangs over him, covers the parts of his shirt that pull awkward and are stained, because they belonged to his dad twenty years ago. William pokes up behind his shoulder, smiling, and that's familiar too, this image of himself out for a night. It's weird to think that if they had met while Fred looked like this, William would no doubt have left his life as quickly as he came. 

"I'm hungry," Fred says and William sighs.

"Spoilsport."

William goes to try on the turtleneck and while he does, Fred takes everything to the clerk. He doesn't really think about it, adding the leather jacket to the top of the pile, and digging his wallet out from his back pocket. 

There are a pair of pink heart shaped sunglasses behind the counter. Fred asks, "Can I also have those, please?"

A minute later, Will emerges from the back near the changing room, smiling wistfully.

"Turtleneck?"

"It wasn't to be," he says, and then, "Did you bag my things for me?"

The clerk hands Fred the receipt. Freddie says, "I bought them."

William shakes his head. "No, no you don't have to do that."

"I wanted to."

"Fred-"

"It's done. Grab a bag?"

William's eyes shift from Freddie to the bag to the clerk. He smiles at the clerk, half his regular smile, nothing even close, and says, "Thank you," before reaching for the second bag. 

They walk to the car. William has to get into the driver seat to open the trunk.

"Hey," he says, watching as Fred shifts around a box of cables and reusable bags in the trunk. "Please don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Buy my stuff for me. I have money."

"I know," Fred says, standing up straight. He puts a hand on the trunk. "I know you do."

"You make more than I do but." His brow is furrowed, his teeth coming out to bite his lip like he wants to be honest but not rude. "I would just really appreciate it, if you didn't do that again."

"I won't."

"Okay." Fred shuts the trunk. William is leaning against the side of his car, drawing little circles in the pavement with the toe of his canvas sneaker. Fred grabs his last purchase from his back pocket.

"Got these for you," he says.

William's smile is small, like he doesn't want to be happy about the sunglasses. They look silly on his face for a second before they look right, that ridiculous ability he has to make everything work somehow. 

"What do you think?"

"I think you're paying for lunch," Fred says. 

The only pub in town has a patio in the front. William wears his new sunglasses the whole meal, perched on his perfect nose. He has three sips of Fred's beer and a bite of his burger. Their legs are tangled together under the table and it's - weird. Nice. It's warm and bright on the patio. William gets a bit of a sunburn on his nose, despite the layers of sunscreen he slathers over himself every morning and afternoon. There are other people everywhere, cottaging folks like them, and the patio busies around them quickly. 

Fred's not one for being lovey in public, but he lets William try and read his palm anyways, sitting on one knee in his seat to lean over Fred's hand and trace his love line.

It's summer, the way every minute with William has been. Summer, like only leaving the AC of the market into the heavy heat can be, summer when Fred opens the Marabou bar and snaps pieces off quickly before it melts, popping them into William's mouth as he drives. It's summer when they fall asleep in the hammock and stay there all night, William's duvet dragged from the attic and over them.

"I used to resent David a lot," William says, a breath away from Fred. The air is cold and so is William's nose when it presses against Freddie's neck. "Because he was living this dream that I always wanted. And I think that left a lot of bitterness in my soul."

"No."

"I think terrible things sometimes, Freddie," William whispers. "Horrible things."

"But you don't say them. And that's why you're good."

Summer, when they wake up damp from dew. Summer, the way William's laugh echoes across the yard when they have a campfire the next night and invite the Hammons, summer in the potato salad potluck and the folding camping chairs. Fred finally learns their names, Per and Carina, and they're firecrackers. Carina has a whole array of filthy jokes that make William cry from laughter and Per is solemn and quiet with wicked one liners. 

It's summer every day, when Fred looks around his grandfather's cottage and it looks better, almost ready. 

"Freddie?"

William is in the water, now, days after the patio date, late afternoon sun above them. He is a summer boy through and through. Fred stays on the dock and watches him.

"Mm?"

"Can you take a picture of me?"

Will rests his head on his hands, layered on top of each other on the dock. His hair looks dark, when it's wet. Fred takes a few photos on Will's phone for him, while Will poses without trying. 

They keep that part of their lives separate, most of the time. When Will climbs out of the lake and cuddles into a towel, he lets Fred look over his shoulder. His Instagram is mostly promotional photographs from shoots, throwbacks from parties, and a couple pictures of the cottage, a selfie of himself in the mirror in the attic. And now, this, William's eyes heavy and happy, his shoulders dripping, the lake behind them. 

Along the top of his phone, Fred sees likes roll in, comments, one from a piper_mc that says  _ omg babe i miss you when are you back in my life _ that Will taps on quickly and writes his own reply:  _ soon soon soon!! _

Fred looks away, out to the lake. It's summer, the way July slips through his fingers too fast.

vii.

It becomes inevitable, William and Fred spending the afternoons together. When the sun rises high in the sky and Fred's finished installing a new faucet in the bathroom, he goes peeking around in the yard to find a snoozing boy under the willow, in the hammock, or chatting with one of his one million family members on the porch. It's swampy out though, humid and thick like it hasn't been all summer, and Fred stops his searching pretty quickly.

Will is inside, when Fred pushes through the screen on his backdoor. He's not in the kitchen, not chopping up fruits on the counter or fiddling on his laptop, ready to grin at Fred as he walks in. Fred finds him curled up like a comma on the couch, two mugs of tea on the table in front of him. His eyes are open and bleary. 

"Will?"

He doesn't stir, his hands cuddled under a bright pillow. 

"William?" Fred asks again, reaching with one hand to touch his shoulder. 

He startles, making a noise like a wounded bird. His eyes are bluer than usual, like he hasn't slept, and his skin is too pale, like he's sick. Fred pulls his hand back.

"Sorry," he says, "Are you feeling well?"

Will shakes his head, closing his eyes. He pulls himself up to sit and reaches under the pillow for his phone. It takes Freddie a moment to realize that the cottage is as quiet as he's ever heard it. He's never been here without music over the record player, a movie on William's laptop, or Will's laughter in his ear. 

William is typing something. He turns the screen towards Fred.

_ My head is aching. My ear is ringing. I can't hear you. _

Freddie doesn't know what to do. He tries to remember the alphabet, so he can spell something out for Will, but he doesn't remember which one is S and A. The blanket under William's hands shakes a little, as he puts his screen down and away. There's never been anything but joy, on William's face. Freddie doesn't know how the fuck to proceed. 

With nervous hands, he slides his phone out of his back pocket.

_ Do you want me to stay with you? _

William reads it and nods, slow, like every movement is making him nauseous. 

Slowly, they get upstairs. The bed is still too small. Fred slides in against the wall, out of the covers, and cuddles William from behind. The window is cracked open, and through it Fred can see that there's a bit of a storm brewing across the bay. Toronto gets like this in the summer, sticky and hot; the roads smell like they're burning wet. He tightens his arms around William.

William doesn't say anything but his hand comes out of the mustard throw, tucked around him, to hold Fred's hand. 

One of the last times they came to the lake as a family, there was a storm across the bay. It happened late in the night and didn't take down any trees, so Fred doesn't remember much of the actual storming. The hours before, that twilight between dinner and bedtime, where the sky is purple, that's what Fred remembers. The air was thick with heat and summer, that July feeling that saturates your clothes. Fred sat out in the yard with his grandfather to watch the clouds get darker and darker. 

His grandfather wasn't a man of many words. Fred inherited that, and his eyes. 

William sleeps most of the afternoon. 

Freddie slips out of the bed just after five-thirty to get something ready for dinner. There are a million little mason jars and glass bottles in William's kitchen, full of lentils and spices and beans.  _ I'm mostly a vegetarian _ , William said, in June, a lifetime ago, one of their first meals together,  _ Unless that's a burger you're cooking because I love burgers _ . His fridge is full of leafy greens and berries, brown soft pears and blocks of tofu. Fred debates calling John and instead consults mom blogs off Google.

An hour later he has a turmeric red lentil soup in ceramic bowls. He finds one of those old breakfast-in-bed-trays near the cookie trays in the long, skinny cupboard by the sink. 

William is sitting up in bed, propped by several pillows, and looking out the window when Fred returns. He smiles, smiling bigger when Fred sets up the little tray over his lap. His voice is sleep worn when he says, "You're back."

Fred sits by his knee and palms over his hair, where it's gone flat at the back. William stirs his soup and blows over the top of it. The sky is almost black out the window, the clouds heavy with rain that refuses to fall.

"Can you hear me?" Fred asks.

Eyelashes lift up and then flutter, as William shakes his head. He grabs his phone from the bedside:  _ Not very well.  _ Then he puts his hand flat against his mouth and outward, toward Fred, and smiles. Fred knows this one. 

They eat quietly. William doesn't finish all his soup so Fred does for him. He takes the dishes downstairs and washes them slowly. The kitchen is welcoming, colourful and sweet. Even the pots and pans William has are silly, with drawings of mushrooms and frogs on them. Fred uses his knuckles to rinse the soup from the bowls before he squeezes some soap into a cloth. Each bowl clinks together on the drying rack, in a row like books on a shelf. Fred dries his hands and looks around the room.

The floors are down, now, in his grandfather's place. He still has the roof to contract out, new cupboards to install, and windows to purchase. When it's done it still won't be as big as this place, still just a main room and a loft. He wonders if the new owners will decorate every inch of it like William. He wonders if they'll raise a family in its walls.

Upstairs, William is fast asleep. Fred curls around him and watches a few episodes of  _ Terrace House _ before his eyes start drooping closed, his hand barely able to hold his phone up on the pillow above William's head. He strips quickly and gets them situated, William's head on his chest, Fred's hand on his cheek. 

In the morning, Freddie doesn't wake up from the light or the lack of space or being too hot. Not this time. This time it's a wet, warm mouth on his throat, spreading kisses along his skin.

"Feeling better?" he croaks.

William's mouth tastes minty. He kisses happy, like he usually does, like every day is a good day to kiss Fred. He giggles when Fred pushes further into his space, laying him back and crawling half on top of him. Every part of him is hot to touch.

"Yes," William says, a few minutes later, when he's been thoroughly kissed. He looks perfect in the morning light through the gauzy curtains. "Yes, I'm feeling better. I woke up from the rain in the middle of the night. It took the humidity with it."

"I'm glad."

Fred licks into his mouth, along the ridges of his teeth. His pulse is heavy under Fred's fingers along his neck. There are birds outside the window but they can't drown out the soft sounds of William, his bitten back gasps and little whines. The old cottage and bed frame groans under them. William laughs when he comes, mouth up against Fred's, and Fred follows suit. 

It's sweaty, after. Will climbs into Fred's lap still in his sleeping clothes, damp and stretched from Fred's wandering hands. 

"You look good."

"Shut up," Will grins, and then: "I feel good. Yesterday was so bad. It was like my head was inside one of those old fashion school bells. I could barely move without wanting to throw up." Fred brushes some hair off his head. "Anyways. My mom texted me."

"That's nice of her."

"Mhm. Alex is coming home this weekend from his galavanting through Europe," Will says, rolling his eyes. His hands are on Fred's shoulders, keeping balance and tracing bones. "And they're getting the whole gang together, so I was going to visit for a few days. Leave on Sunday, back Thursday night."

"Cool."

"Did you want to come?"

"Oh," Fred says, after a beat.

"Alex is bringing his friends," Will says, grinning, reverent. "And my sisters always have a million people they invite up. My cousins from out of town are staying over on Tuesday. We have a big house and a lot of space in the backyard, so we usually go out on the boat and play ping pong and stuff. It's really fun. Besides, I bet Alex will want a real workout partner. I usually disappear on him after a while."

Fred knows he has to say something.

"It's really fun," William says, hesitant now. "And my parents are really chill. They won't like - assume we're. Like. Anything. They'll just be happy to feed you. My dad will be obsessed, he'll want to talk hockey forever."

Pastrnak probably went. Pastrnak probably loved the Nylander clan's gatherings. Fred imagines him in the thick of cousins, blond hair and bright smiles, like the kids in William's picture frames. He can imagine Pasta regaling Will's dad with his hockey career, lifting weights with Alex, playing mini sticks with the kids in the yard, and falling asleep in William's childhood bed like he belonged there. 

He needs to say something. He can't.

"That's okay," William says, after a few more seconds. "You obviously don't have to. You don't know them. So. It might be awkward. Um. No problem."

"Will."

"Really," he says, grinning, but he's moving off Fred's lap to stand now. "Really, it's not a big deal."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry. You have the house to work on and a bunch of shit to do. Don't worry about it. I'm sorry for bringing it up. Really, Fred." He's moving around the room, stripping off his clothes. His back is golden, in the morning sun, his ass small and round. He turns, naked, asks: "Breakfast?"

"I'm." Fred sits up, blankets around his groin. "William."

"It's fine. Breakfast?"

Fred watches as he steps into a pair of shorts. "Yeah. Breakfast sounds good."

viii.

William plans to leave for Stockholm just as daylight breaks on Sunday morning. It's a long drive, nearly six hours. They go into town Saturday; Freddie picks up more caulking and two cans of primer at the hardware store while William puts together a collection of snacks for the drive up. Fred has to move them out of the way of his feet, when he goes to sit in the passenger seat. 

"Meg will be disappointed," he jokes, plucking a package of red liquorice out of a bag. 

"Shh," William says, looking over his shoulder to back out of the parking spot. "It's just the one package. What she doesn't know can't hurt her."

He helps Will pack that night. In the kitchen they package three little snack packs full of berries and what William deems an "appropriate" amount of cookies is. They make homemade granola based trail mix.

"You know," Fred says, after he's secured another beeswax cover over one of William's one million glass jars. "This might be the most intense meal planning I've ever seen, and I work with athletes. I work with John Tavares."

"He's pretty good," William says, measuring a quarter cup of sunflower seeds. "John Tavares."

"He's alright." 

"I don't look like this because I spend my time lying around eating Cheetos," William continues. He reaches for the dried cranberries he's gotten into recently. "I spend a lot of money on skincare products. I have to exercise a lot. I can't eat sugar."

"I guess."

"Athletes think they're so much better than the models they fuck," William says, prim, "As if you're not also being paid to show your body off. Like carbing up all summer and then working it off in September is good for you."

Fred blinks.

William stops his measuring. He says, "I bet John Tavares would not question my snack packs."

"No," Fred says. Imagines John here. He would be confused by a lot of William but Fred kind of thinks they would get along; they both get pretty obsessed with things. "No, he'd be into them."

Later, he sits on William's bed while he packs his clothes into a soft leather bag. He has an impressive amount of clothing, hidden in boxes under his bed and stuffed into the small linen closet in the living room. Everything gets matched with something else before he decides on it. He fingers at every fabric, mouth screwed up to the side, as he decides. 

"Maybe you only need one black shirt," Fred says as William's pile of stuff to bring grows taller and taller. 

"Frederik," Will sighs, and Freddie laughs. "You add a Czech accent to that sentence and you'll start reminding me of someone else."

It surprises Fred, how casually William brings Pastrnak up. Never in a cruel way, never to be bitter or coy. Always simple, like a fact. Fred says, "He used to get pissed at you for packing too much?"

"Every by-week it was 'William, you have too many clothes.'" He does a silly accent for Pasta's lines, his face smiling. "He threatened to tell the airline stewardess to lose my suitcase on purpose. As if he can talk. That boy has three hundred sneakers."

"What's wrong with having three hundred sneakers?"

"Oh god."

They go to Fred's to sleep; it's pitch black on the walk over, only the stars to keep them company. Will tilts his head back to see them and traces the ones he knows with a finger. He tugs Fred to stand still and walks his fingers through the sky, black, pointing to make shapes.

"I used to live in Chicago," William says, voice hushed. "My freshman year of high school. And my friend Nick invited me to his family cottage and his mom knew every constellation in the sky, and how each one got its name. I forgot the stories behind most of them, but that's Ursa Major. She's a bear."

It's nicer in Fred's cottage than it used to be. Getting closer to finished. The list is more crossed off than on. 

They light the candle on the bedside so they can see each other while they fuck. It's more frantic than they usually go for; Fred pushes away any thoughts of William being gone for most of the week, of the summer sinking away like sand, of the late hour and early departure. William puts his face into a pillow as Fred fingers him open. He's still in one of Fred's hoodies, huge over his shoulders, and Fred pushes it up to see where his back curves into his ass, to see the faint freckles over his skin. 

William is usually quiet while Fred fucks him. He likes to be kissed and held. He prefers to be on top. 

Tonight he arches himself into Fred's hands, face hidden in the sheets. He whines when Fred pushes into him, knees slipping over the sheets until Fred steadies him, until Fred can get a hand on his back and push him down into place, one hand on William's hip. Fred fucks him until Will's gasps have gone breathy, high pitched and hot, and then he pulls out to finger Will until he's coming onto the sheets. 

William's face is red when he turns over. He gamely opens his mouth to Fred's dick, though, lips at the head while Fred jerks himself. The inside of his cheeks are soft. This too, is off. William likes to flirt on his knees, likes to be coy and in control. Now, his hands lay at his side while Fred fucks his mouth, gentle, eyes closed. His eyelashes are dewy with sweat, tears, and when he looks up Fred comes.

Will kisses his cock until he's spent. 

"Holy shit," Fred says, out of breath. William pulls the hoodie up to wipe his mouth on it.

"Holy shit." His voice is like sandpaper.

They steal a few hours to sleep. When Fred wakes, it's to an empty bed and clamouring on the main floor. He can smell firewood burning and something frying in a cast iron pan. The sun is only just starting to make its way across the sky, turning the world orange and light blue. Fred drags himself through the motions of sitting up, standing up, and putting on a pair of sweatpants. William has made it his mission to steal all of Fred's best sweaters over the course of the last month, but Fred finds one in the back of the closet,  _ Toronto Maple Leafs Hockey _ along the chest.

"Good morning," William says, at the stove. The french press is steaming on the counter next to him. Fred gets close to drop a kiss to his cheek and peer into the skillet.

"French toast," Will says. "I could barely sleep last night so I got up before my alarm. I dated this guy a few years ago for three weeks and he was studying at Le Cordon Bleu." Fred pours himself some coffee. Not even the birds are awake. "He was beautiful, Fred, he had these big almond eyes and gorgeous cheekbones. I still dream about his cheekbones."

"Mm."

"Anyways, he made me French toast, the first morning I stayed over at his." William flips the toast over. "And I wasn't technically eating bread at the time. But I ate it anyway. And it was the most delicious French toast of my life." He gives Fred a little smile over his shoulder. "So I'm making it for you. You're welcome."

"Thank you."

There's still almost nowhere to eat in the main room so they climb back into the loft. William tucks his toes under Fred's thighs as they eat, his teeth crunching into the crisp edge of the bread. He looks like the version of himself on Instagram right now, in a vintage button down and black trousers. Or he would, without the parts of Freddie on his skin: the purple bruise on his throat and Fred's socks, too big, over his feet.

"Tell your chef guy thank you," Fred says. The toast is soft in the middle, fluffy, but a lovely golden brown all around from its time in the oven. 

"I haven't talked to him in a long time."

"Messy breakup?"

William shrugs one shoulder, says, "Not messy just. Sad. David called me and told me he missed me. I missed him. I dropped everything to go be with him. Rinse, repeat. A lot of people got mixed up in our nonsense."

Fred wonders how many other guys William has made breakfast for. "Looks like you'll have good weather for driving."

"Mm. I'm glad."

They make out against William's car before he goes. Fred keeps waiting to not want this, Will's waist under his hands, his long nose against Fred's, his giggles when Fred's beard brushes against his skin. He keeps waiting and it doesn't come. William tugs on Fred's hoodie strings as he pulls away.

"Safe drive."

He watches until the orange car disappears around the bend, thinks about going back to sleep. He stays up instead, makes his way to William's porch. Will left him the keys to his cottage. Idly, Fred thinks about crawling into his small bed, into the sheets that smell like spring, or tearing into the package of smoked salmon that Will definitely forgot about before he left. 

The sky is all purples and pinks with the sunrise. Night is so short here, at this time, the days stretching on endless. Water brushes up against the shore, splashing against the dock. Fred thinks about facing this day alone and then the next. It's a dismal prospect. 

Fred thinks about what he could have had, this week.

William next to him on the drive up, smile bright and unstoppable, even this early in the morning. They would listen to soft music, that mainstream folk stuff that's always on the playlist links Tyson sends Fred. Once the light was coming up the bay, Will would start with his grabby fingers for snacks and then they would be eating blueberries and granola, diving into his little jar of peanuts, and his even littler jar of cashews. 

They would take a stop halfway up to stretch their legs and pee. It'd be in some nowhere town but William would sniff out a diner and they would eat lunch there, William sneaking bites of Fred's food in light of his wilting salad. And then Fred would drive, his body all cramped, and Will would probably fall asleep, as he always seems to in the afternoon. 

Maybe Fred would tell him about his big family reunions. Tell him about the time a few years ago when his sister tripped playing volleyball and he spent the rest of the day with her in the emergency room. William's good to tell stories to, always winces and gasps in the right places, and Fred would want his to be good. 

The Nylanders would be welcoming. Based on the photos on every available inch of space, there are fifty of them at least, all beautiful and indistinguishable from the next. Maybe William would have some embarrassing posters on his wall from when he was a teenager. Oh, the photo albums, William with an awkward haircut and a baby face, shoved into Fred's arms, Will's red protesting falling into Fred's shoulder while he tried to defend all his looks. 

Fred bets he was a cute baby.

Mitch told him once, that he has an ache when he knows he's missing out on something. Fred's never missed anyone in his life, not really, not old girlfriends or family. He didn't get that ache. But now there's a weight in his stomach and it's impossible to know if it's for William or for that version of Fred, the one in his imagination, the one that is laughing while William dances in the car.

When it starts to get hot, Fred heads back into his cottage. He washes the cast iron. He cleans his room, folds away all the extra blankets that William likes, and straightens the wardrobe. 

Everything's a lot quieter than it used to be.

"It's coming along," Fred says later that day, or maybe the next. Time passes weird without anyone else to take notice of it. "The roofers are coming Tuesday morning. Once they're done I just have to fix the windows."

"Sounds good," his mother says, down the line. They both finally figured out how to use the iPhones that Freddie bought them two years ago. He can see their foreheads, at least. "You've put a lot of work into this, Fred."

"Farfar would be very proud of you."

"Thanks, dad."

"You'll be home this week then, no?" his mom asks. "Roofing and windows should be done by Wednesday. Let me know when you need me to make up your bed. It's no problem for us." 

"I might stay another week," Fred says, watching William's hammock sway in the wind off the water. He wonders, briefly, if he laid it in again, if he could hear William's laughter. "I'll give you dates on, um, Friday. I'll know better, on Friday."

His parents are quiet. He imagines them in their breakfast nook, the teacups they got for their wedding in front of them.

"What's their name, Fred?" his mother asks, slow, and fuck.

Fred weighs his options. Fuck fuck. "William."

"Ah," his dad says.

The roofers come Tuesday morning, just as the sun is rising. Fred makes them coffee. 

Once they're situated he retreats to William's, where the thudding of hammers is fainter. He means to get some planning done - plane tickets and housekeeping and decisions about the training camp schedule Kyle forwarded to him - but he gets distracted. Fred ends up walking up and down the walls of William's house, looking at every photo and painting.

The paintings are nice, but Fred likes the photos best. There are snapshots of William around the world. He's grinning big at the Arc de Triomphe, looking every bit the beautiful French boy. There's one of him in front of the Taj Mahal, throwing up a peace sign, a picture of him with a koala bear in his arms, face sweet. More photos from around the world, New York and LA but also a concert hall in Vienna, near a camel in North Africa. His smile is so familiar in every one, this real thing, like the person on the other side of the lens was someone to trust.

Photographs with his friends make Fred stop even more. There's a rotating cast of characters Fred comes to understand. Scores of beautiful women with long, shiny legs, wearing silly birthday hats in an apartment kitchen, or their arms around each other on a stage. There are some beautiful boys too, slender like William but less joyful, something angular and ghostly about every one of them. 

This William is frightening to Fred. Has always been.

He likes the William he knows. He likes knowing how William takes his coffee, how he groans in bed when the light reaches them. He likes the William who spends his days lying on a blanket in the yard with a book, who smiles big at Fred. He likes that there aren't any distractions.

With a finger, Fred traces a Polaroid snap of William on a rooftop somewhere, holding a red cup and giving the camera an arched eyebrow. Fred doesn't know that William.

But he wants to.

The roofers leave after four. Everything is orderly and well in their wake. The cottage looks good, something to be proud of.

"Thanks again," Fred says, shaking hands with the guy who had introduced himself as Anders.

"No problem," he says. "We patched up any holes we saw. Let us know if they give you any trouble, over the years."

"I'm actually, um," it's hard to get out, for some reason, "I'm selling the place at the end of the season. But I'll leave the contact information for the next owners."

"Oh." The man gives the cottage a new look. "My buddy is looking for a fishing cottage. Nothing too big, just a nice place on the water with enough space to store his stuff. This might be a good fit for him. Can I give him your number?"

Fred looks at the place, it's new roof. Says, "Yes, of course," even though he doesn't want to. 

Wednesday is slow, Tuesday night bleeding into it while Fred sits up in William's bed and watches movies he's not interested in. He's exhausted when he wakes up, mid-morning, desperate to figure out why he stayed up in the first place.

There are four windows in the cottage. Fred starts with the one in the loft. 

He's aching by the time he showers the grime off at William's house, using his soft peach towels to get himself dry. When he looks at himself in the clouded over mirror, Fred barely recognizes himself. His skin is tan by the sun, face taken up by an unruly beard. He thinks about shaving it, then remembers William's delighted laughter in bed, when he's in between his legs and he tickles somewhere sensitive. 

He keeps the beard.

It's late when Fred accepts the call from Mitch and the boys. Better late than early, like Mo who's blinking sleep out of his eyes, bright white scene of Vancouver over his shoulder. 

"How's roughing it, Fred?" Zach asks. He has his dog with him, all light brown nose and happy smile. They don't look alike, Hyms and his dog, but they have the same friendly grin.

"Good," he says.

"You look like a proper lumberjack now," Mitch says. "It's a good look."

"Thanks, Mitch."

"Played much golf, bro?" Auston asks. He's always doing something else on these calls, looking at his phone or out the window. It's impossible to get him to focus for a second.

"No," Fred says. He tried to watch some of the PGA tour before Will left and William would not sit next to him for even a minute. He kept saying, "Ugh,  _ golf _ ," under his breath and then cheerfully left Fred to his own devices. "Have to get back into it before training camp."

That leads to Zach asking about when they're all coming back, which leads to Mitch boasting about his wicked barbecue again. He's been to like seven weddings this summer, Mitch, too popular for his own good. Mo, who is not great before his first coffee, tells Mitch to be quieter a few times because "If I lower my volume anymore, you will all be muted, and while that's not a bad outcome for me, I'd like to avoid it."

It feels familiar in a way that is anything but right now. It hasn't been like this for a long time, for Fred. 

Auston tells them about this girl he's been seeing who's "alright but smoking," which leads to a series of unimpressed faces from Hyms. Mitch tells a heartwarming tale about how his girlfriend put together a trampoline in their backyard because he didn't know how to. Then Mo starts in with a story about Tess, and Zach is talking about his wife, and then they're looking at Fred, expectant.

"Can't imagine it's been a babe show," Mo says, not unkindly, "Up in the middle of nowhere."

"Well," Fred says. He thinks about agreeing and moving on. It would be easier. Then he thinks about William and his horde of beautiful friends, thinks about introducing him to this lot. "Actually there is this guy."

Auston's eyebrows go so high so fast, Fred thinks he might have genuinely pulled something. "What? There's a guy? Holy shit dude, tell us everything."

"Tell us what you want to tell us," Zach clarifies but Mitch is already bouncing up and down in his chair.

"Is it the guy from a while ago?" Mitch asks, "The one that you said wasn't serious? Is it serious now?"

Fred doesn't know how to do this. He's never really known, likes to keep things inside his own head and work them out from there. He doesn't know where to start. He doesn't know how to tell the stories that trip off everyone's tongues easily.

"His name is Will," Fred says. "He's - really kind. And sweet. I don't know."

"Photo please," Mitch says, "I need to visualize this, dude."

There aren't very many photos of him, on Fred's phone. Most of the photos he's taken this summer have been different drill sizes, measurements for the wood and windows, or pictures of the sunset from the dock. The Hammons took one though, that night they came over for the fire. William is sitting close to Fred, one foot up on his chair. He's in a giant hoodie of Fred's and he's smiling huge, even though Fred is only just, leaning into each other. 

"Oh shit," Auston says, "Way to go, Fred."

"It's complicated," Fred says, "There's a lot of variables. I'm still figuring everything out."

"Well," Mo says, eyes kind, "When you do, I'd love to meet him. You look really happy, Freddie."

Fred goes to bed that night, tripping over Mo's words. Happy. 

Thursday drips by. The cottage is almost done, but Will wanted to paint it with him, so Fred's held off. He primes it now, leaves the doors and windows open, to air it out. It's not easy work but Fred can't stop smiling, every time he looks back and sees the lake. 

Night arrives too slow. Fred waits on the porch to watch the water shimmer, to listen to the evergreens swaying in the wind. The island across the bay, he realizes, is not as far as it used to seem. And then - 

\- tire on gravel as a car turns down the lane and -

\- Fred's already, standing, grinning. William looks up as he approaches and grins through his open window. He shuts the car engine off and steps out and into Fred's arms. 

"Hi," Fred says, holding him up.

"Hi."

One hand on his cheek, soft, and they're kissing. Fred doesn't miss people but he missed Will, missed his mouth, missed his smile, missed the sweet way his hands come to Fred's chest, his toes pushing him up so Fred doesn't have to bend so far down. He looks exactly the same and different, the sun from somewhere else touching his skin and leaving him kissed. 

"Good drive?" Fred asks, when he can pull away.

"It was okay," Will says, his eyes big, smile huge. "You missed me, huh?"

"Nah."

"You're lying," he grins. "You're a liar."

Fred kisses him again. William's in a cotton shirt and he pushes it up at the back to get at skin. His sigh fills Fred's ears. 

"I maybe missed you," Fred whispers.

"Maybe?" Will asks and his smile is as wide as an ear of corn. "I think you more than maybe missed me. I think you missed me so much you don't know what to do with yourself."

Will squeals then, loud, when Fred hoists him over one shoulder. His face presses, upside down, into the flat of Fred's back. Fred takes two steps towards the yard and says, "I'm going to toss you in the lake."

"Don't!" Will says, giggling, "Really don't, Fred, I have my hearing aid in."

Will's tired, so they fall into each other on the couch. It feels like the same summer and somehow different, somehow more when Fred cards his fingers through Will's hair just to make him smile, when they kiss but it doesn't go anywhere, just to remember each other's mouths. When William says, eyes earnest, "I missed you too. I missed you so much."

ix.

There's a part of Fred that will always be young, his childhood self, deep within his gut. It's the part of him that still gets excited every time he steps onto the ice before a game, the part that wants to stop for ice cream on a road trip, or feels like he's doing something thrilling when he's awake past midnight. 

That part of him knows summer's almost over. It feels like when a shadow looks over your shoulder.

August is heat, thick and unrelenting. They spend a day in the sun and William's head aches for days. Carina diagnoses him with heat stroke. Fred spends two days stuck inside with him, a fan blowing cool air over their bodies on the couch and William sipping from a water bottle. He reads to William from one of the only books in the house,  _ Le Petit Prince _ . William lies with his head on Fred's chest, between Fred's thighs, because he likes to feel the rumble of the words through his body.

August is laughter, bright and inviting. William gets inspired one day and drags Fred out to the yard where he's set up a bunch of buckets of tie dye paint. They tie rubber bands over his shirts and socks and it's like they're children, laughing in the sun. They hang their clothes out on a makeshift line, a piece of wire from Fred's tool kit attached from his house to Will's. It takes them ages to dry but once they have William does a tie dye fashion show in his living room for Fred. Fred crouches low to take Polaroids of him, says, "Over your shoulder, Will," and acts like a camera man. William laughs so hard he cries.

August is golden, crisp like an apple. They paint Fred's cottage one afternoon. They keep the main room simple, egg shell white to maximize the space. Will has a steady hand, so he paints around the doors and windows, while Fred uses the big roller. Will brings his record player and some records to sit in the center of the room while they paint. Fred hasn't heard of any of the songs but he likes them. It's the kind of music you want to listen to around people. The loft they keep white as well, except for the wall the bed sits against. Will gets paint on his nose, gold like the wall, as they work. It picks up the light from the afternoon sun and makes everything feel warm. 

"Good?" Will asks.

"Yeah," Fred says, and he's been smiling so much his face hurts. "Yeah, it's perfect."

But then - 

August is dread, this sinking thing, the weight of the summer pressing in. 

Fred wakes one morning to William next to him, crying. He blinks a few times, dragging himself from sleep. William is curled away but Fred can hear him, can see his shoulders moving, can feel the bedsheets shift with every gasp. 

He puts his hand out to touch William's side, gentle. 

It is the opposite of when Will's ears were ringing from the humidity. Everything that day was syrup slow. It was July honey. This is August vinegar.

"David is dating someone new."

A boy in his arms, a wet face pressed against his neck. Fred puts his arms around him. He tries to shake off his exhaustion and can't.

"He posted on social media about her," William whispers. His chest rattles with every inhale. "And I know it's not fair. I'm a hypocrite. But she's pretty and she's there and I never could be. And it hurts, Fred."

Fred kisses his forehead, makes shushing noises. 

Later, William apologizes. He says he's sorry, for "putting that on you, so early on in the morning. And in general. I came into this summer with a lot of baggage and I'm working through it, and I really appreciate that you give me like. The space? To do that. I guess. Am I making sense?"

"Yeah," Fred says. He doesn't know if he's telling the truth. He hasn't been able to shake off William's tears from his shoulder all day. 

"Good. Good, I'm really glad."

They're on the lawn, sitting on a blanket from Fred's linen closet, watching the fire. 

William climbs into his lap. He is in one of Freddie's big sweaters. His mouth is hot on Fred's mouth, his hands grounding on Fred's neck. Freddie slips his hands under William's sweater, presses against hot skin and revels in the soft gasps. The mean part of Fred, the one he quiets when he has to, thinks that as long as Will was going to go crawling back to Pastrnak, Fred might as well get his fill now.

That night they paddle out to the middle of the lake. William brings his camera, his Gaspard camera, and takes photos of the herons along the island, the gulls in the sky, the pines that have fallen half into the water. He turns around to take photos of Fred too, his eyes playful.

The feelings in Fred's stomach, those dreading feelings, have spread. He keeps thinking about William's tears, about how he said, "I'll never stop being in love with him, not really," into Fred's shoulder. Like Fred was supposed to know what to do with that.

William looks beautiful with the sky changing colour around him, eyes curious and sweet as he looks around him. Fred can't look at him, for too long.

Per and Carina come over for drinks. They're headed back to Tromsø, where they both work at the university. William makes too much food, spreads of smoked salmon and capers and enough salad for twelve people. They drag his long table out to the yard and eat around it, William's vases overflowing with the last of the summer's flowers, every bowl and pot in his kitchen filled with food. 

He gets dewy eyed, towards the end of the night, when Carina and he are lighting citronella candles to ward off the bugs. They play some music, something upbeat and jazzy, and Will and Carina stand up to dance together. Neither of them are particularly good at it, but they laugh like it doesn't matter. Fred stays at the table, with Per.

"Cottage looks good," Per says. He's stoically drinking a beer.

"Thanks."

"Your grandfather was a good man. He'll be proud of what you've accomplished."

Fred means to say thank you again but it gets caught in his throat. He clears it, says, "Took me longer than I expected. I should have been done by mid-July."

"Oh no," Per says. "No, you took as long as you needed."

Fred wants to argue with him, wants to say that he didn't even remember to schedule the roofer until July was almost over, that there are days when he can't recall what he even did, was too busy sitting at William's breakfast table, watching him learn a new language. But Per isn't looking at him, is watching his wife and William spin each other in circle, arms held high. 

"The ones that are unexpected are the ones that matter the most," he says, and then goes ruddy in the face. "I'm going to get another beer. You want one?"

Fred shakes his head. He watches William spin himself in circles until he falls to the ground, laughing as he goes. 

"I'm going to miss them," Will says, later, when they're curled up in his bed. He got drunk off the wine toward the end of the night and sat in Fred's lap, bright eyed and earnest. He kisses, wet, over Fred's ear now. "I don't want anyone to leave. I want the summer to go on forever."

It's so quiet in the room. Everything feels temporary. He wonders how long Will is going to miss him. Wonders how quick he'll be back in Boston.

"Carina said I could visit Tromsø whenever I like," Will continues. He sighs, sweet. His body is slack against Fred, leg curled up around Fred's hip. "We should go. Carina says they have a purple house and a birdbath in the backyard. I like birds."

"You should sleep," Fred says. He doesn't know when his eyes got wet. It doesn't make any sense.

"Mmkay," Will says, tucking his face into Fred's neck. 

The next morning Fred books his flight back to Toronto. William is out with a hangover upstairs while Fred sits in the living room. He wonders how long it will take for William to pack all his things away. 

Auston facetimes him, as Fred's checking for his confirmation email.

"Fredddd," he says. Fred knows from experience that he's not drunk, just been drinking, his cheeks flushed. He's at his condo, head on his pillow. "When the hell are you coming back, man?"

"Soon," Fred says. "We'll get a drink."

"Damn right we'll get a drink."

Quiet footsteps down the staircase and then William's passing through the hallway, heading into the bathroom. Fred watches the door close while listening to Auston describe the night. It seems like he went to one of the bars on King West they like, the one with the massive rooftop patio. 

"And Dermy was fucked, dude," Auston says, "Kept trying it on with the salt shaker. He kept flirting with the fucking  _ salt shaker _ , Fred."

The door to the bathroom opens. William pads over to him, rubbing his eyes from sleep. He crouches behind Fred's head, to see the screen. 

"Hi," he says. 

"Auston, Will," Fred says gesturing between them. Feels weird. He wishes, suddenly, that he was chatting with Mitch, who would make everything bright and big, or Hyms, kind. Auston's too - sharp. 

"Hey," Auston says, nodding his head like he does to girls at bars. "So you're the one keeping Fred too busy to call his friends."

It's almost funny. Will smiles like it is, says, "That's me."

"Nice to meet you."

"I think we've actually met before," William says. Fred looks back to him. "You were drafted the same year as my brother."

"Oh," Auston says, clueless. "Cool."

They hang up not long after. William is in the kitchen by then, his espresso machine making a bunch of funny noises. He's chopping strawberries into slices, as usual, a little bowl of them. Will is slow while cooking; he rinses each one individually, then scoops the top off and lays it, top down, on the cutting board. The slices go into a porcelain bowl to his left.

"Strawberry?" he asks, holding it out to Fred.

Fred takes it. Chews it slowly. 

"Auston Matthews still hasn't grown into that nose, huh?" William says, casual. 

For some reason it pisses Fred off. He doesn't know why - he's teased Matty's nose a hundred times - but maybe because it feels. Feels like a chirp. Feels like something the other bench would say after a goal. 

"He does alright for himself."

"I believe it," Will says, laughing and - 

"You got a problem with him?"

William looks surprised, when he turns his head to Freddie. They've never gotten into a spat before. "I don't really know him. I've just met a lot of hockey players. Like, a  _ lot _ of hockey players."

"We're not all the same."

"I didn't say you were." William's knife hits the cutting board rhythmically. 

"You seemed to imply it."

"Where's this coming from?"

"I just want to know why you're being a dick to Matty. You don't even know him."

William sighs. He looks out the window and says, slow, "Auston Matthews hit on me in an elevator at the Draft a few years ago. He was pretty drunk and he said some pretty gross things. But you're right, I don't know him."

Fred clears his throat. His mind races through explanations, excuses, but he can't commit to any of them and before he knows it, he's opening his mouth and saying, "My flight back to the city is on Monday. I'm going to my parents' place Friday."

"Oh." William stops cutting, the argument rolling off his shoulders. He turns, hands pressed to the counter behind him. "That's soon. That's really soon."

"I have a lot to take care of," Fred says. "And training camp starts up again in September but obviously I haven't been skating or training, so. I want to get back into shape before it starts."

"That makes sense."

"Where are you headed?" He goes to open the fridge, looking for something for breakfast. Better than to look at Will's big eyes, the way his sweatpants cup at his ankle, sweet. "New York? Stockholm?"

"I haven't decided," William says. "I guess I wasn't thinking about it."

Fred brings out some of the food from the night before, the salmon and some bread. He lays it out on the counter. Still doesn't look at Will.

William moves to put his face against Fred's arm, like he's hiding. He says, "The summer went by so fast."

Fred nods. Doesn't know what else to say.

They go swimming, later that day. Will is quiet like he almost never is. He has a big floating donut and he swims through the middle of it to float. Fred does a few laps but comes back to him, putting his arms over William's on the silly pink sprinkles. They float together. William looks paler in the water, freckles on his nose stark. His eyelashes spike out like spider legs. 

Fred kisses him. The kiss tastes like lake water. 

"Hey," Will says, later, two nights before Fred's last day. His long legs are folded like a coat hanger on his couch. He's reading a different book now, this one about a cholera outbreak in London in the 19th century. Fred looks over from the book Kyle gave him at the start of the summer: it's about ownership and leadership. It's a dry read. "Can I ask you a question?"

Fred nods. 

"What were you thinking about?" Will says, and then, at Fred's furrowed brow, "I mean, for when you leave. Did you want to try and see each other? Do you want to keep talking?"

"Oh."

Will gets up from the couch. The light coming through the windows is waning, the Nordic sun finally sinking below the horizon, and the pages of Fred's book have gone grey. Will gets his fancy Parisian matchbox from behind one of the pictures on the mantle. He walks to every candle in the room and begins lighting them, hand cupped around the flame.

"Sorry to throw that at you," Will says, waving a match out in his hands. Fred watches the white smoke curl up toward the ceiling. "I wanted to bring it up in a more like. Chill way. It's just that we're sort of running out of time now."

He uses the long candlestick he just lit to move to the corner table, where four candles of different height and size are. Fred says, "I haven't thought about it."

Will turns to him. "You haven't?"

"No." Fred's woken up every night this week imaging Will on his balcony in Toronto, what the sunset would look like if he was there to see it. He blinks, looks at Will who's turned back to his candles. "Sorry."

"That's okay," Will says. Fred traces the line of his slight shoulders, tight, hard like the flat stones that lie by the lakeshore. "You don't have to apologize for not feeling - for not wanting the same things as me."

Fred watches as he finishes with his candles, returning the long stick to its ornate holder. When he drops back down on the couch he has a practiced smile, easy and charming and cool, like when he was pretending everything was okay at the antique shop. Fred folds down a corner of the page he's on with a thumb, sets it on the table in front of them. 

"Okay," he says.

Will bites his bottom lip, two white tombstone teeth along pink. He's not looking at Freddie, has his eyes on the bushel of pretty purple weeds he put in a mason jar yesterday. After a minute of silence, Fred's eyes on him, he begins to say, "I guess I just wanted to say something because it feels like sometimes you're looking at me like you want more than just. Whatever this is. And sometimes you say things that make me feel like - like this isn't just a summer distraction."

It's easy to picture, William leaning against the counters at Fred's condo. He would hate Fred's condo, would hate the grey walls and clean cupboards. Fred would leave for a practice and come home to find William spreading colourful quilts over the couch, hanging vintage frames along the tight hallway toward Fred's bed. 

He hasn't said anything and Will says, "But clearly I was wrong. So. That's fine."

It isn't. His face is all careful like it is when he asks Fred to take photos of him for Instagram. He's waiting and Fred doesn't. His mouth is really dry, all of a sudden.

Will stands up. "I need something to drink."

He disappears down the hallway. His steps are quiet, more a ballerina than a boy. Fred hears the tug of the fridge open and the scrapping of one of Will's kitchen chairs being pulled out. Fred eyes the growing stretch of blue across the sky. The candles shimmer in the wind from the open window. He stands.

When he gets to the kitchen, Will is sitting with a glass full of rosé. He takes the seat across from him, in one of Will's stupid uncomfortable chairs, the ones he barely fits in because they're too small. The way Will looks at him is hard to swallow, this quiet thing, contemplative; it's a face that's asking and Fred's never liked answers. 

"Do you want to try and see each other?" Fred asks, eventually. It feels cheap. Not enough.

"Yeah." Will says, simple. "Yes."

Fred nods. Will tilts his head, looks like a character in a movie. Fred continues, "I guess I'm. Surprised."

"When I went back to Stockholm," Will begins, licking his top lip while he thinks. "I realized that I missed you. Not because you were here and so was I, but because I missed who you are. And what you're like. And I realized that even though you're - even though it would be distance, which is not something I ever thought I would want again, I'm - I'm willing to. Try. If you are."

Freddie nods. William is always honest with Fred but. But Fred can't let go of that one morning, his thick tears. His admission that he would never stop being in love with Pastrnak.

"Can you let me in for a second?" Will asks, really quiet, like Fred is a frog on the dock and Will is trying not to spook him. "Can you tell me what you're feeling?"

"Do you want to hear the truth or a lie?"

"Fred."

Fred looks at William's hands, dry and small, around the glass. He says, "You were really upset when you found out about Pastrnak's new girlfriend. So I kind of figured you wanted to get back with him, more than you wanted to be with me."

He looks up. Will looks the kind of hurt that can only come from having honesty thrown in your face.

"That was harsh," Will says, a few seconds later. His voice sounds weird, like it took a minute for him to make words. 

"It wouldn't be the first time someone's regretted a breakup."

"Please don't be an asshole," he says. Fred should have kept his mouth shut. Instead, he opens it again.

"I'm sorry for assuming that after you cried your eyes out on my shoulder, you weren't interested in pursuing a relationship with me," he says, slow, eyes back on Will's hands. "I don't think you're over him."

Will rolls his eyes, hard, and upset. 

"Am I wrong?"

"You're not my therapist, Fred."

Fred watches Will push his chair out from the table and stand. He swallows the rest of his drink and goes to the sink, rinses it out. Fred says, "Am I wrong, though?"

"Yes," Will says. He passes a cloth around in the glass. Fred can't see his face. "David was my first love. I loved him for a really long time. I'm allowed to be upset about this. It doesn't mean I want to be back with him. I want - I want to be with you."

It echoes around his head. Doesn't feel real. The mean part of his brain is huge and it's reached his lungs, making it hard to breath. He digs at the table with a thumb, feels how the wood presses into his skin, wonders if he could leave a permanent imprint or if it's the other way around, wood grain into him. Will is still like a crane at the sink, one long line down the middle of his back.

"If you don't want to be with me too, that's fine. I can accept that." 

Fred's nail cuts a line, white, across the surface of the table. He brushes it away. 

"But if you do feel something for me," Will continues, "Now would be a pretty good time to tell me."

Fred thinks about it one more time: Will in Toronto. He thinks about how he would get along with Mitch, their easy smiles and contagious laughs, thinks about how he fits next to Fred in bed, how it would be showing him the places in the city that make Fred feel like himself. 

He says, "I don't need the drama."

The cottage, beautiful and airy, breathes in with Will. The counter smacks as Will sets his glass down. Every floorboard whines, shouts, as Will turns, steps away from the sink.

"Please leave," he says, quiet. Fred does.

x.

William's reading alone on his dock, a day and a half later, when Fred sees him next. Freddie sits down next to him. 

His stuff is packed. The cupboards are empty of food. It's ready to be sold.

"You talk about how unsure I am, Fred," William says, voice heavy and shaky. "Like I have one foot out the door. But you haven't said anything real this whole time. Not the whole summer."

The water is blinding, with the reflection of the sun. It looks like it's on fire, this white hot flame, fluid. Fred wants to be submerged.

"Why are you selling this place?" William asks. "Why would you give up something that's so important to your family? Why would you spend so much time on something, if you wanted to get rid of it?"

Fred doesn't say anything. Will breathes, deep into his diaphragm, and looks out at the lake.

"I'm sorry," Fred says, after a minute. "I said some really messed up shit to you."

"You did."

"It was uncalled for."

William nods. He is sitting perfectly straight, like a kid in ballet class. His long legs are folded over each other and his eyes are bright, too bright, trying-not-to-cry bright. He says, quiet and slowly, like the water hitting the shore, "Did you mean them? Do you really think that after everything we shared this summer, I would forget about you?"

A grey heron takes off on the island. His grandfather used to sing a folk song about a heron who turned into a woman and would seduce men to their deaths. "I don't know."

"Why did you say them, if you didn't know? Why didn't you ask me how I felt about you?"

Fred shrugs.

He watches as William blinks once, twice, and then there are two tears racing down his face. He nods, drags the back of one hand to stop the tears in their tracks. Before Fred can apologize again, William says, "If you ever figure it out, give me a call."

Dry, warm hands touch Fred's and drop a roll of paper, ripped from a page in William's book. A string of numbers. 

"Safe drive," William says, standing up, and then he is gone.

xi.

Fred is eating cereal in his condo when he realizes it doesn't feel like home anymore.

His parents drove him to Copenhagen for the flight. His mum sat in the backseat so Fred could chat with his dad, even though neither of them have ever been chatters. They talked about Keefe, about the Leafs strategy for training camp, about his plans once he touched down. They walked him up to the Departures gate, even though he's too old for that now, and gave him a kiss before he left.

The flight was one of those endless ones where Fred couldn't fall asleep, kept dreaming about the lake and ridiculous laughter, sunny smiles and William's shaking voice in the kitchen.

He got back late. He took the train out of Pearson and watched the light from the highway flash by. A woman stood by the door, speaking on the phone. She looked like an air stewardess, hair up and back, with a neat suitcase. She looked like she had someone to come home to. She stepped off the train at Weston. Fred looked back out the window.

And now, in the morning light, he chews on his cereal and feels inexplicably empty. The city was dark last night, the sky tall with lights, when he walked back to his place from Union Station. It was stale in his apartment so he slept with the window open, except he could barely sleep. The bed felt too big and the noise was too loud and there wasn't anyone to wake up to.

Fred's had breakups before. This will pass, just like the rest.

He gets an email from the friend of the guy who worked on his roof. He sends him photos of the cottage and talks numbers. He gets a call from Kyle and goes into his office one afternoon, watches him gesture with his hands about some strategy or another. He works out for hours. He bumps into Kappy and chirps him for his crap facial hair. He meets up with Zach and they take Lady for a walk around, spend an hour sitting underneath a tree and giving her cuddles. 

He calls the boys. 

It should be the same. Nothing's changed in his wardrobe, his things aren't any different. William's never seen him in the jeans he puts on, in one of his white shirts. They shouldn't feel weird to put on.

Fred grabs the leather jacket before he goes. It still looks good on him.

The usual crowd is waiting for him at the usual spot, Queen West and Spadina. Hollsy is holding court at a round booth in the back. Mitch is cackling on his left side, while Dermy rolls his eyes and starts arguing. They've had this conversation a million times and they'll keep having it.

"Freddie!" Mitch calls, squishing over to give him space. "How the hell have you been, big guy?"

"Off the grid," Hollsy says, grin big and friendly.

"Shots," Kappy says, dropping a tray of them on the table. Matts is lingering behind him with Mo and Kerf. Fred gamely takes a shot and downs it with the rest of them. "Attaboy Fred."

The club is loud. It's not Fred's style, but he likes watching Kappy get up to dance like an idiot, Mitch waving his arms around next to him. Matts is trying to wheel a girl at the bar and, based on her face it's not going well. Mo's talking about the big fishing weekend him and his dad take every year. This year they caught - 

"No way it was a hundred pounds," Hollsy says, loud. "No fucking way."

"Why would I lie about that?" Mo asks, gesturing wildly and almost hitting Fred's drink over. Fred moves the bottle closer to himself. It's mostly empty, but still.

They keep arguing about fish. Fred's thoughts drift, annoyingly. 

William couldn't be at a place like this. He told Fred that with his ear he avoids loud bars and crowded areas, only goes to them when they're necessary for work. If he were around, maybe the night would be different. Maybe they'd be out on Fred's balcony tonight instead, just the two of them, taking in the sunset over the lake. Or maybe he'd have them all up on the roof of his building, William tucked under his arms as the night got colder. 

"Hey!" Hollsy says. Fred shakes himself back into the moment. "Need another?" he asks, pointing to Fred's beer.

Fred shakes his head.

"Phew," Mitch says, squeezing in next to Fred. He's sweaty from the dance floor and holding a purple drink with an umbrella. He takes a sip of it. "So. Frederik. When do I get to meet the boy?"

Fred rolls his almost empty beer bottle between his hands. He looks at one of the televisions in the bar, where they're playing clips from the Raptors last season. "I don't know."

"You said he lives in New York, right?" Mitch asks. He's fanning himself with one hand. "Not too far, that's lucky. It would be hard to navigate like time zones, if he was in Sweden."

"I guess."

"Auston said he met him over facetime with you. Said he's a knockout."

Fred shifts his jaw, to pop it. There's been a million images through his head the last few days but that's definitely left him stumbling, William young and trapped in an elevator while Auston said crude things to him. He's tried not to think about William at games in Pastrnak's jersey, watching Auston skating on the ice and feeling unsettled.

"Yeah," Fred says. "He's - stunning."

"Well good. You deserve the best, Fred."

"I'm -" Fred shakes his head. "We're not anything."

Mitch leans his head closer, to hear. He's not looking out anymore, just at Freddie. "What? What do you mean?"

"He broke up with someone in the spring." Mitch is listening carefully, like he's known for. "Another hockey player. They mostly broke up because of distance."

"Okay," Mitch says.

"Will - he told me these stories, you know? About the guys he was with while him and his ex were on a break." Gaspard the weird photographer, the gorgeous French chef, the boy he spent four nights with while in Barcelona for a shoot. "And I could just see myself as another story. Freddie, the guy who was fixing up the cottage next door for the summer."

"Oh." Mitch takes a sip of his drink and nods. "He didn't want to try and become more serious?"

Fred goes to shake his head then can't. His drink is empty. "No, he. He had this pattern, right? He always went back to his ex."

"He said he wanted to get back with his ex?"

"No. No, he said he wanted to be with me."

"That's great. Isn't that great?

"No, he - " Fred bites his lip. It's hard to make sense of everything, when Mitch is asking simple questions. "He told me, once, that he would always be a little bit in love with him. What am I supposed to take from that?"

Mitch looks quiet, like he's thinking. He says, slow, "Look I don't know William. And I'm always on your side, Fred, no matter what. But maybe he said that because they were together for 8 years. His ex was probably his best friend. And it's hard not to always love someone, if they were your best friend."

Fred stares at the table. He takes in a breath and exhales, hard. 

"But what do I know," Mitch says. He puts down his drink. "I'm going to go dance. Wanna come?"

"No," he tries to say but nothing comes out. He clears his throat, tries again: "No. Thanks though, Mitch."

Mitch swings an invisible lasso around his head and throws it over Fred, tugging. Then he waves goodbye, cheerfully, and throws himself back into the fray of their friends, dancing like dads at a wedding.

Fred drops a couple of bills on the table and stands. 

He walks home. The city smells hot and sticky, too warm for his coat. He slides it off and takes in everything around him. The beautiful people in line for clubs, the packed patios. He cuts across to King, to get back home, and a show is just getting out at Roy Thompson. There are scores of older women in sparkling dresses and pearls teetering on the sidewalk looking for a cab. Fred passes them, head down.

College kids pass by, laughing. Delivery guys on bikes wait for the green light, one foot on the pavement, checking their phone. Fred's missed the city, he really has, missed this life that pulses through him. 

He hangs up his jacket when he gets in. Doesn't bother to switch on the lights, just heads to the balcony and leans his arms on the railing. 

The way Mitch spoke was so simple, like life could ever be that simple. Like William could have loved someone for eight years and then woke up one day and decided to love Freddie. Like he's a boy who's honest, to a fault. Who would cry on Fred's shoulder over a lost best friend, who would tell him, earnest, in a kitchen that he wanted to be with him. 

Fred gets his phone out. 

He opens his email app, clicks on the newest, and types out a reply.

_ I'm taking the cottage off the market. Sorry for the inconvenience. -Fred _

xii.

Fred goes for a run.

It's early. The sun hasn't risen off the lake when he jogs past Front and across Lakeshore. Other joggers and cyclists pass him. He goes faster than he would, normally, runs hard until he's out of breath and bent over. He puts a hand on his chest where it's rapidly rising and falling, and sits down on the cool pavement of the boardwalk. The sun is rising to the east, turning the whole sky light. 

He had a dream last night, half forgotten now in the light. A shape with William's smile and eyes, the smell of pine trees, and water, everywhere water, like the world was coming undone.

The trek home is slow. Fred drags his shirt over his face, to wipe at the sweat. 

It's mid morning when he's out of the shower, in clean clothes. He sinks into his couch. Think about watching a movie but can't find the attention span. Thinks about calling someone, setting something up, but his skin is too itchy, his mind still racing. He plays around with his phone, opening apps and then stops short.

Instagram has refreshed and at the top is a post from william_nylander. The first photo is a shot of their willow tree, the dock behind it. Fred scrolls down, breath held, and reads the caption:

_ summer breaks my heart every year and every year i forget.  _

Fred flicks through the photos, film, the ones William took all summer, clunky vintage camera around his neck. The second one is a picture of a fire, sunrise in the background, then a shot of the canoe bumping into Fred's dock. There's a photo of William's bed, messy and unmade, the window cracked open and light. Carina and Per, muted in the falling sun behind them but with bright smiles, that last night. There's the hammock in the wind, the little beach they came across the one day they went running to the other side of the lake, their shoes in the sand. Then one of Fred's cottage, fixed up, red and neat in its exterior. Fred's chair is gone from the porch, his cooler, so it must have been taken after he left.

The last photo is from that afternoon on the dock, the first time. Fred's smile is blushing, hesitant. He looks happy.

Fred stands. The scrap of paper William gave him went from his hand to the book Kyle gave him, to his passport, to an Altoid tin, to Fred's dresser, to, finally, the little pocket in his wallet. He slides it out.

William doesn't pick up the first ring. 

He calls again, heart pounding in his ear. It takes a few rings, but eventually there's a click and - 

"Hello?" William asks, detached. Probably expecting this to be a telemarketer. 

Fred opens his mouth to speak. He breathes in and says, "Hi."

Static skirts over their call, from Toronto to New York or Stockholm or Paris or Tromsø. William could be anywhere in the world but it only matters that he isn't here, next to Fred.

"Freddie?" Will asks, quiet. 

"Yeah."

He doesn't say anything else. Fred wouldn't, if he were Will.

"I said those cruel things to you," Fred begins, watching a cloud shift across the sky. "Because I was scared. And maybe I thought you were going to get back together with Pastrnak. But more, I think I was afraid I would give you a reason to. Because I'm not brave, not like you. I'm not kind and warm."

"You are," Will says. 

"Not like you. I'm the guy that kept saying no to you, when I wanted to say yes."

"I'm the one who cried over his ex. But you have to understand it - it wasn't because I missed him. Not really. It was because someone else made him happy like I couldn't. And that hurt my pride. It didn't make me want to get back with him."

"Okay," Fred says. 

"I'm sorry. It wasn't fair to you. It wasn't fair for me to assume that you would just. Get that."

William wouldn't like his condo. He would hate the straight lines of glass and metal, wouldn't like that there's no backyard. He'd like the city though. He would like the weird parks that grow out of nowhere, the noise of the streetcars, the laughter that echoes down every road in the summer. 

"I want to try this," Fred says. He keeps looking ahead. "You and me. I might not be able to make every event but I want to hear you tell me about them later. And I won't always be able to take your call, but I want to have to call you back. I want you to be the last person I talk to before I fall asleep, Will, I want that so bad. I've missed that."

William makes a breath down the line, says, "Fred-"

"No, no, wait. Because I'm not just saying it." Fred closes his eyes. It's easier in the dark. "I phoned this woman, right? She lives near me and she gives ASL classes and she says she's flexible, so if I missed a few because of games or if I'm travelling, we can do them online."

"You don't need to learn ASL for me," William says, soft.

"I want to," Fred says. "I want you to come and fill my condo with your vintage shit. I want to take you out, so you can force me to dance with you. I want to watch you cook with your one million bowls, even if I have to do the dishes after."

William laughs and then breathes in, hard and shaky. 

"I can't get to New York," Fred says. "Not right now. Not with training. But before training camp I could make the trip. It wouldn't be long, but it'd be worth it. The flight's practically nothing."

"I'm not in New York. My subletter has my apartment until September."

"Stockholm?"

"Nope," and Fred holds his breath, "Chicago. I guess you're not the only hockey player who needs to get back into shape. Alex almost passed out after our run yesterday."

Fred's never asked for anything from William, not intentionally. If he did, he knows it would be given to him with the same kindness, same smile and gentle hands that he's come to expect. He probably doesn't deserve to ask for anything more. That doesn't mean he doesn't want to or isn't going to.

"I miss you," he says, hoping.

William laughs, light, and says, "What are you up to tomorrow?"

xiii.

Fred fiddles with his keys at the Arrivals hall. The massive screen above the sliding doors to the baggage area put the flight from Chicago in thirty minutes ago. Fred knows Will still has to clear customs and knowing him he'll have sixty pounds worth of clothing. He's still. His heart is pounding. 

His phone buzzes and Fred checks it, quick. It's one of the trainers from the Leafs, forwarding an article about improving reflexes, and when Fred looks up again William is passing through the doors. 

He's on his phone, blond head bent. He has a backpack and the soft leather bag in one hand. He's frowning at something but when he looks up and sees Fred he grins. 

The bag hits the ground and Will's in his arms. 

He spins them, slow. The only thing in his mind is William, his warmth, the smell of his hair, his arms around Fred, his legs around his waist, his laughter in Fred's ears. He kisses every part of his face he can until they slow down to get at each other's mouths, William smiling too hard so Fred keeps kissing his teeth, and Fred's heartbeat so loud he's sure everyone else in the airport can hear it too.

"Hi there," William says, giggling, pulling back so he can put his hand on Fred's face. 

"I missed you," Fred says. 

"I can tell." They kiss, again, William in his arms. "I missed you too."

Freddie grins. Nudges their noses together. "Is this enough spinning or do you require more?"

William laughs. "I'll call it sufficient."

He sets him down. William looks cute in his glasses, with his hair tucked back in a snapback. He's still so bright and golden it's hard to look at. Fred tugs him into another hug. 

"You good?"

"Yeah," William says, grinning. "Where are we headed first?"

Fred grabs his bag for him with one hand, tugs William into his side with the other. He walks them toward the long hallway, the one that leads to a monstrosity of parking, arm around William's shoulders. He wants to tell him about how he's keeping the cottage, that he wants to add an addition next year. But he waits. They have plenty of time.

"Well, we have to hit the AGO," Fred says, "and get tacos from Seven Lives in Kensington Market. And Mitch would kill me if I didn't bring you to his barbecue tomorrow night. And I want to show you my favourite view of the city." Fred hasn't talked this much, this fast, in ages. "But tonight I thought we could order something in and just see each other. Does that sound good?"

William's hand squeezes his. He says, "Yeah, that sounds good."

Fred was worried that William's smile wouldn't look the same here. He was right: it looks better. 

**Author's Note:**

> additional tags: mentions to past william nylander/david pastrnak, auston matthews just existing, and to a past experience of sexual harassment.
> 
> i can be found [here](https://william-nylander.tumblr.com/)


End file.
